[Complete]
When; Saturday; April 26th, 2008 or so
Rating; R for gore and language
Characters; Nicholas D. Wolfwood (nico_oniichan) and Amanda Young (notjigsaw)
Summary; As if you didn't put this together by now: Amanda executes her first real trap in the City, and to the dimensions that Jigsaw told her he expected of her.
Log;
His face was tingling. Not an unpleasant way; sort of like how a hand or foot would feel after being asleep, or when the Novocain finally starts to wear off after a trip to the dentist. Drinking too much the night before and passing out face down in his own bed could be attributed to this, but there were no soft cotton sheets beneath him, no downy pillow he could grab and pull over his head. No, he was most certainly not in his damn bed, though he did seem to be lying on a cold, metal surface, head propped up with his arms stretched out on either side of him.
The thought occurred to him in his drug addled mind that it felt like he was resting on the Cross Punisher; the length of his gun pressed between his shoulder blades just enough to be vaguely irritating, and as he tried to roll off to his left to go back to sleep, a chill went down his spine as he realized that he could not move his right arm from where it was pressed against a metal slab. Wolfwood opened his eyes, and panic set in.
Thick iron hooks had been pushed through the skin of his face, pulled up enough that they were sitting vertical, and if he should move his head in any direction, he was sure it’d rip it clean off. He jerked his arms, trying to break free of whatever it was restraining his body, but it was to no avail. He swallowed hard, glanced out of the corner of his eyes to see… Oh, fuck. A nail driven through his wrist, like he was Jesus Christ himself. Blood was pooling down the side of his arm, and now that…whatever the fuck he’d been drugged with was wearing off, he could feel another nail pinning down both his feet, and other hand as well.
His breath went ragged as he forced himself to calm down, not to go with his original instinct that told him to rip it out at all costs, potential damage to his body be damned, and scream for help. He had to assess the situation, first, get a grip on himself and calm the fuck down. He could do this, he’d been through worse, everything would be fucking fine and he’d bitch out Spikey for burning dinner, and buy Hikaru a whole goddamn tub of vanilla ice cream. A series of ropes on the ceiling, some with blades hanging over his body, candles below them that were… Shit. What the fuck was this.
Just then he heard a noise behind him, and it took all his will not to move his head to try to see who was behind him.
“The fuck is this, huh?” He asked, steadying his voice as if he hadn’t just woken up, nailed to a cross. “Who the fuck are you?!”
She had been sitting reverse on a chair and watching her captive for the longest time. Her mind kept trailing away as she sat for almost an hour since she got him there, trying to recuperate from having to heft him on her own. She should have been used to it. She did it before John got his police dog, after all... the thought of John kept sending her to a silent boiling point. He should have been there to see it, to understand she was fucking good enough, that she didn't fail his goddamn test. That she didn't...
The priest stirred, and the young "bartender" who had curse upon offered drink of opportunities to learn so very much about him sat straight in her chair. He was a first good test for this, and she...
Oh, that was right. Looking at her hands, which still trembled from the strain on her muscles in getting him there, her memory was jogged. A speech. He needed a speech. She promised herself she'd have one ready, with a speech manipulator with her when she did it, but shit happened. Oh well, it wouldn't matter after tonight. Not tonight. He'd be dead. (She just... hadn't realized what they said about the City was true about it all.) And to emphasize how sure she was of this, the belongings she stripped from him--all but his pants--were heaped on a medical table across from him and in eye shot for him despite the inability to move at that time.
The candles were lit just around ten minutes ago, the heat rising and testing the initial shell of the roped contraption barely holding those blades from crashing on his hands.
... "You're a selfish asshole, taking for granted all around you. Instead of repenting for your past of deception and death, you continue to unappreciate the people around you, you know that?"
Out of all the possible responses, that wasn’t one he was expecting in the least. He lay there, dumfounded for a moment, and if there wasn’t currently an inch-thick hook under his chin, he might’ve gone slack jawed.
“What… Just who the fuck do you think you are, huh?” He didn’t deny it, for he knew her words to be true. That didn’t mean he going to just fucking take this. “The hell’d I ever do to-“ Wolfwood started, only to hesitate. He knew that voice from somewhere. A late night drink at the bar, maybe? Trying to connect a name and face to that voice, he closed his eyes, and tried not to furrow his brow lest he pull those goddamn hooks.
Amanda.
Testing the strength of the nails once more, and fuck, it hurt, he opened his eyes again, staring at one of the cadle’s flickering flames. “What the hell’s this about.”
She let him go. The recognition in his voice, the realization... That was one thing she found was the most satisfying thing of all. It wasn't a true punishment unless they knew their executioner's face, right? John... Well, John had so much more to worry about than she did. Maybe she was messy, but so the fuck what. She--no. That wasn't the way this one was going to go.
It was built how he wanted it built.
"This is my first creation since arriving here, priest. I call it the Judas Trap. I hope you like it; you were the reason I spent weeks perfecting it. I even lost a dog over it, fucker.
"And it's only on account of you. The City's been real nice to me when it's come to setting this up to bring you your judgement over the abuse you've suffered those around you. You're a bit of a cocksucker, you know that?" The last part was a bit in singsong. Amanda Young never claimed to be eloquent.
She pushed from her chair slowly but purposely stayed out of his eyeshot. "The trap is designed to give you two options. You can either hold on to you deceptive ways and in exchange allow that blessed candle burn through those ropes and release the blades you see on your hands, or you can let your double-crossing face be damned and push back on the spring you feel behind your head and allow the hooks to free you. If you can do that, the hooks will release weights to stop the blades..."
And then a pause was given to allow him room to process.
Judas trap. Perfecting it. She'd spent time designing this, making this fucking thing for the purpose of solely using it on him. He's not a good guy, has never thought he was, but he never thought he was the kind of asshole to deserve something like this at the hands of a fucking stranger.
"Didn't realize I was that fuckin' special to you." He spat out, and fuck if he cared that mouthing off wasn't a good idea. He was scared, yeah, he didn't wanna die, didn't wanna have to hurt, but she wasn't Knives, wasn't even Legato. No, she was just some cunt of a woman with too much free time on her hands, who was going to fucking pay for doing this to him.
Wolfwood fell silent as she explained how this was going to work, the rules of this thing. A sick, queasy feeling settled into the pit of his stomach as he recalled how familiar this felt, like he was back in that basement with that asshole Hyde and Jekyll, with the tape, the rusty saw he had used to-That didn't matter. He was going to get out of here, wasn't going to die again. Not for her, not like this.
"Fuckin' bitch." And he would've laughed, to help ease away the panic, to reassure himself that he was gonna get the hell outta here, but just talking was pulling at hooks in his face that made his hands ball up into fists so tight he could feel his short nails piercing the skin of his palm.
Amanda was completely unphased by his insults and bites. In fact, she was far more preoccupied with planning out the rest of her little speech to even hear a thing he had to say. She wasn't as good with words as John was, but she was doing a pretty damn good job, she thought.
She paced over with a cocky sashay to place her hands on each side of his head. She leant over his face enough to look him straight in the eyes with absolutely no qualm whatsoever. "You just... don't get it, do you, asshole?"
Quirking her mouth in a sly grin, she leant down closer. "Father Wolfwood. I want to play a game. Free yourself of the face that has betrayed and hurt so many, or free those who love you that are around you of your constant lack of appreciation and abuse. Pretty simple, don't you think? Ahah."
Having her that close to his face made him try to lash out instinctively, but all he succeeded in doing was hurting his already pinned arm. He gritted his teeth in frustration, having her this fucking close, but he couldn't do anything, couldn't fucking move at all.
And that one little sentence was enough to set him off. No. No, no, no, no- He'd survived this already, killed the asshole and passed his fucking test. No. Wolfwood jerked his entire body, trying to reach for her, trying to get loose, trying to do something besides fucking lay there and let this happen.
He tried doing this for some undetermined amount of time, what felt like hours and hours of struggling but could've been mere minutes when he heard a snap of rope. Eyes went immediately to the ceiling as he panted and went completely still, only somewhat relieved to see that while one of the ropes suspending blades above his body hadn't quite broken yet, it was hanging considerably lower than it was earlier.
Okay, okay. He could do this. Breathe, breathe. As long as that bitch hadn't taken his stuff, hadn't pulled those vials out of his jacket, it'd be okay. He couldn't regrow limbs, no, he wasn't like Livio, but the damage done to his face... That he could probably manage.
Calmed down, or at least as calmed down as Wolfwood was going to get, he began to push his head back as fast as the fucking spring would allow.
Not that Amanda planned to leave it at that. She reached out as he started to fight the trap, and patted the side of his face, just under the line of hooks. "You have fun with that."
She chuckled and started to walk away, becoming engrossed in just putting her hair up in a pony tail after wiping his blood off her fingers, from the fluid starting to stream from his wounds. He'd be too frantic to get out of there, if he managed to deactivate the trap, and pull himself off the spikes, to be concerned with her. His wounds would be too severe, anyway, right?
Which was why, after she got her hair fixed just so, Amanda took station at a nearby set of controls and television screens set up to actually capture his trap at all angles. Just in case John showed up. Just in case she had to prove she could do it. Her feet were swung up on the panel so she could lounge back, and she took up her sketchbook that had various traps and ideas littering the leaves inside. Completely unconcerned, she started to work on other ideas. She'd worry once it was time to start following his escape out of the abandoned warehouse basement she claimed to herself.
He would've ripped her fucking fingers off with his teeth, if he could have. The look on her face would've been worth it, but losing his hands and feet over it... Not so much.
Wolfwood pushed down harder on the spring, body tensing with pain as he felt the hooks rip and pull skin and muscle away, as blood spilled down the sides of his face, into his hair, his eyes, until he tasted blood in his mouth from his teeth ripping into the side of his cheek to keep from screaming out in pain. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction, wouldn't break in front of her, no, he'd do that when he was in his apartment, when no one could see him.
Each push downward sent a million nerves on fire, and there was so much blood, too much, too fucking much, and he couldn't think about anything more than the pain and the red liquid that was every fucking where. But he kept going, kept moving that damn rusted spring down until his face was level with his body and as he stared up at the tattered remnants of his skin, his face like it was a fucking mask, he let out a broken, sickened moan that ended up with him vomiting over the side of the cross. No longer paying attention to the trap, that it had done exactly as she had said it would by preventing the blades from coming down upon him, nor when a catch released and the nails pinning his arms to the table were no longer so tight that he couldn't move. No, all he was focused on was getting a hold of those vials, and making it stop.
He ripped out his arms and feet, rolled off the side of the cross, and moved to where he could see a neat pile of clothing, his clothing, and the relief it would provide. A shaking, bloodied hand reached into his jacket and only then did he still realize that the nails were still in, and as he popped open a vial, downed the contents, did he finally pull them out.
Amanda was, for a lack of better words oblivious. The moaning, the vomiting... it was really par for the course, wasn't it? If he'd started laughing, now that would have been something attention-worthy. At least he had the balls to do it. Though, Amanda was trying to figure out why the hell John was so bent on making sure there was an escape. Who the hell appreciated it like she did? Well. Other than...
It didn't matter. She did it, but not without consequences. Guess she still had it in her not to let them really get out, huh? She did make one glance at the cameras and, fuck, he lost a lot of goddamn blood. She didn't want to haul a dead body, but the building incinerator was so close, she could probably get the pully cart she used for testing traps to haul him over.
Back to the sketchbook she went. She'd check in after an hour or so. He'd need time to get out, without the keys she had attached to her belt loops.
And no, she didn't notice anything at all beyond the scope of the cameras.
It didn't take long for it to kick in, once he'd swallowed down the drug. He could feel muscle and skin growing back, repairing irreversible damage in only a matter of minutes and effectively sending him on an adrenaline high. Wolfwood lay in wait until the last of his face was restored-his nose, oddly enough-before standing weakly on his own two feet.
His lips worked into a deranged smirk as he glanced at his tormentor with dark, angry eyes. That bitch hadn't noticed. Obviously hadn't planned this out in it's entirety, because she would've accounted for that.
He slowly advanced towards where she sat, breath ragged. She was going to fucking pay.
Rating; R for gore and language
Characters; Nicholas D. Wolfwood (nico_oniichan) and Amanda Young (notjigsaw)
Summary; As if you didn't put this together by now: Amanda executes her first real trap in the City, and to the dimensions that Jigsaw told her he expected of her.
Log;
His face was tingling. Not an unpleasant way; sort of like how a hand or foot would feel after being asleep, or when the Novocain finally starts to wear off after a trip to the dentist. Drinking too much the night before and passing out face down in his own bed could be attributed to this, but there were no soft cotton sheets beneath him, no downy pillow he could grab and pull over his head. No, he was most certainly not in his damn bed, though he did seem to be lying on a cold, metal surface, head propped up with his arms stretched out on either side of him.
The thought occurred to him in his drug addled mind that it felt like he was resting on the Cross Punisher; the length of his gun pressed between his shoulder blades just enough to be vaguely irritating, and as he tried to roll off to his left to go back to sleep, a chill went down his spine as he realized that he could not move his right arm from where it was pressed against a metal slab. Wolfwood opened his eyes, and panic set in.
Thick iron hooks had been pushed through the skin of his face, pulled up enough that they were sitting vertical, and if he should move his head in any direction, he was sure it’d rip it clean off. He jerked his arms, trying to break free of whatever it was restraining his body, but it was to no avail. He swallowed hard, glanced out of the corner of his eyes to see… Oh, fuck. A nail driven through his wrist, like he was Jesus Christ himself. Blood was pooling down the side of his arm, and now that…whatever the fuck he’d been drugged with was wearing off, he could feel another nail pinning down both his feet, and other hand as well.
His breath went ragged as he forced himself to calm down, not to go with his original instinct that told him to rip it out at all costs, potential damage to his body be damned, and scream for help. He had to assess the situation, first, get a grip on himself and calm the fuck down. He could do this, he’d been through worse, everything would be fucking fine and he’d bitch out Spikey for burning dinner, and buy Hikaru a whole goddamn tub of vanilla ice cream. A series of ropes on the ceiling, some with blades hanging over his body, candles below them that were… Shit. What the fuck was this.
Just then he heard a noise behind him, and it took all his will not to move his head to try to see who was behind him.
“The fuck is this, huh?” He asked, steadying his voice as if he hadn’t just woken up, nailed to a cross. “Who the fuck are you?!”
She had been sitting reverse on a chair and watching her captive for the longest time. Her mind kept trailing away as she sat for almost an hour since she got him there, trying to recuperate from having to heft him on her own. She should have been used to it. She did it before John got his police dog, after all... the thought of John kept sending her to a silent boiling point. He should have been there to see it, to understand she was fucking good enough, that she didn't fail his goddamn test. That she didn't...
The priest stirred, and the young "bartender" who had curse upon offered drink of opportunities to learn so very much about him sat straight in her chair. He was a first good test for this, and she...
Oh, that was right. Looking at her hands, which still trembled from the strain on her muscles in getting him there, her memory was jogged. A speech. He needed a speech. She promised herself she'd have one ready, with a speech manipulator with her when she did it, but shit happened. Oh well, it wouldn't matter after tonight. Not tonight. He'd be dead. (She just... hadn't realized what they said about the City was true about it all.) And to emphasize how sure she was of this, the belongings she stripped from him--all but his pants--were heaped on a medical table across from him and in eye shot for him despite the inability to move at that time.
The candles were lit just around ten minutes ago, the heat rising and testing the initial shell of the roped contraption barely holding those blades from crashing on his hands.
... "You're a selfish asshole, taking for granted all around you. Instead of repenting for your past of deception and death, you continue to unappreciate the people around you, you know that?"
Out of all the possible responses, that wasn’t one he was expecting in the least. He lay there, dumfounded for a moment, and if there wasn’t currently an inch-thick hook under his chin, he might’ve gone slack jawed.
“What… Just who the fuck do you think you are, huh?” He didn’t deny it, for he knew her words to be true. That didn’t mean he going to just fucking take this. “The hell’d I ever do to-“ Wolfwood started, only to hesitate. He knew that voice from somewhere. A late night drink at the bar, maybe? Trying to connect a name and face to that voice, he closed his eyes, and tried not to furrow his brow lest he pull those goddamn hooks.
Amanda.
Testing the strength of the nails once more, and fuck, it hurt, he opened his eyes again, staring at one of the cadle’s flickering flames. “What the hell’s this about.”
She let him go. The recognition in his voice, the realization... That was one thing she found was the most satisfying thing of all. It wasn't a true punishment unless they knew their executioner's face, right? John... Well, John had so much more to worry about than she did. Maybe she was messy, but so the fuck what. She--no. That wasn't the way this one was going to go.
It was built how he wanted it built.
"This is my first creation since arriving here, priest. I call it the Judas Trap. I hope you like it; you were the reason I spent weeks perfecting it. I even lost a dog over it, fucker.
"And it's only on account of you. The City's been real nice to me when it's come to setting this up to bring you your judgement over the abuse you've suffered those around you. You're a bit of a cocksucker, you know that?" The last part was a bit in singsong. Amanda Young never claimed to be eloquent.
She pushed from her chair slowly but purposely stayed out of his eyeshot. "The trap is designed to give you two options. You can either hold on to you deceptive ways and in exchange allow that blessed candle burn through those ropes and release the blades you see on your hands, or you can let your double-crossing face be damned and push back on the spring you feel behind your head and allow the hooks to free you. If you can do that, the hooks will release weights to stop the blades..."
And then a pause was given to allow him room to process.
Judas trap. Perfecting it. She'd spent time designing this, making this fucking thing for the purpose of solely using it on him. He's not a good guy, has never thought he was, but he never thought he was the kind of asshole to deserve something like this at the hands of a fucking stranger.
"Didn't realize I was that fuckin' special to you." He spat out, and fuck if he cared that mouthing off wasn't a good idea. He was scared, yeah, he didn't wanna die, didn't wanna have to hurt, but she wasn't Knives, wasn't even Legato. No, she was just some cunt of a woman with too much free time on her hands, who was going to fucking pay for doing this to him.
Wolfwood fell silent as she explained how this was going to work, the rules of this thing. A sick, queasy feeling settled into the pit of his stomach as he recalled how familiar this felt, like he was back in that basement with that asshole Hyde and Jekyll, with the tape, the rusty saw he had used to-That didn't matter. He was going to get out of here, wasn't going to die again. Not for her, not like this.
"Fuckin' bitch." And he would've laughed, to help ease away the panic, to reassure himself that he was gonna get the hell outta here, but just talking was pulling at hooks in his face that made his hands ball up into fists so tight he could feel his short nails piercing the skin of his palm.
Amanda was completely unphased by his insults and bites. In fact, she was far more preoccupied with planning out the rest of her little speech to even hear a thing he had to say. She wasn't as good with words as John was, but she was doing a pretty damn good job, she thought.
She paced over with a cocky sashay to place her hands on each side of his head. She leant over his face enough to look him straight in the eyes with absolutely no qualm whatsoever. "You just... don't get it, do you, asshole?"
Quirking her mouth in a sly grin, she leant down closer. "Father Wolfwood. I want to play a game. Free yourself of the face that has betrayed and hurt so many, or free those who love you that are around you of your constant lack of appreciation and abuse. Pretty simple, don't you think? Ahah."
Having her that close to his face made him try to lash out instinctively, but all he succeeded in doing was hurting his already pinned arm. He gritted his teeth in frustration, having her this fucking close, but he couldn't do anything, couldn't fucking move at all.
And that one little sentence was enough to set him off. No. No, no, no, no- He'd survived this already, killed the asshole and passed his fucking test. No. Wolfwood jerked his entire body, trying to reach for her, trying to get loose, trying to do something besides fucking lay there and let this happen.
He tried doing this for some undetermined amount of time, what felt like hours and hours of struggling but could've been mere minutes when he heard a snap of rope. Eyes went immediately to the ceiling as he panted and went completely still, only somewhat relieved to see that while one of the ropes suspending blades above his body hadn't quite broken yet, it was hanging considerably lower than it was earlier.
Okay, okay. He could do this. Breathe, breathe. As long as that bitch hadn't taken his stuff, hadn't pulled those vials out of his jacket, it'd be okay. He couldn't regrow limbs, no, he wasn't like Livio, but the damage done to his face... That he could probably manage.
Calmed down, or at least as calmed down as Wolfwood was going to get, he began to push his head back as fast as the fucking spring would allow.
Not that Amanda planned to leave it at that. She reached out as he started to fight the trap, and patted the side of his face, just under the line of hooks. "You have fun with that."
She chuckled and started to walk away, becoming engrossed in just putting her hair up in a pony tail after wiping his blood off her fingers, from the fluid starting to stream from his wounds. He'd be too frantic to get out of there, if he managed to deactivate the trap, and pull himself off the spikes, to be concerned with her. His wounds would be too severe, anyway, right?
Which was why, after she got her hair fixed just so, Amanda took station at a nearby set of controls and television screens set up to actually capture his trap at all angles. Just in case John showed up. Just in case she had to prove she could do it. Her feet were swung up on the panel so she could lounge back, and she took up her sketchbook that had various traps and ideas littering the leaves inside. Completely unconcerned, she started to work on other ideas. She'd worry once it was time to start following his escape out of the abandoned warehouse basement she claimed to herself.
He would've ripped her fucking fingers off with his teeth, if he could have. The look on her face would've been worth it, but losing his hands and feet over it... Not so much.
Wolfwood pushed down harder on the spring, body tensing with pain as he felt the hooks rip and pull skin and muscle away, as blood spilled down the sides of his face, into his hair, his eyes, until he tasted blood in his mouth from his teeth ripping into the side of his cheek to keep from screaming out in pain. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction, wouldn't break in front of her, no, he'd do that when he was in his apartment, when no one could see him.
Each push downward sent a million nerves on fire, and there was so much blood, too much, too fucking much, and he couldn't think about anything more than the pain and the red liquid that was every fucking where. But he kept going, kept moving that damn rusted spring down until his face was level with his body and as he stared up at the tattered remnants of his skin, his face like it was a fucking mask, he let out a broken, sickened moan that ended up with him vomiting over the side of the cross. No longer paying attention to the trap, that it had done exactly as she had said it would by preventing the blades from coming down upon him, nor when a catch released and the nails pinning his arms to the table were no longer so tight that he couldn't move. No, all he was focused on was getting a hold of those vials, and making it stop.
He ripped out his arms and feet, rolled off the side of the cross, and moved to where he could see a neat pile of clothing, his clothing, and the relief it would provide. A shaking, bloodied hand reached into his jacket and only then did he still realize that the nails were still in, and as he popped open a vial, downed the contents, did he finally pull them out.
Amanda was, for a lack of better words oblivious. The moaning, the vomiting... it was really par for the course, wasn't it? If he'd started laughing, now that would have been something attention-worthy. At least he had the balls to do it. Though, Amanda was trying to figure out why the hell John was so bent on making sure there was an escape. Who the hell appreciated it like she did? Well. Other than...
It didn't matter. She did it, but not without consequences. Guess she still had it in her not to let them really get out, huh? She did make one glance at the cameras and, fuck, he lost a lot of goddamn blood. She didn't want to haul a dead body, but the building incinerator was so close, she could probably get the pully cart she used for testing traps to haul him over.
Back to the sketchbook she went. She'd check in after an hour or so. He'd need time to get out, without the keys she had attached to her belt loops.
And no, she didn't notice anything at all beyond the scope of the cameras.
It didn't take long for it to kick in, once he'd swallowed down the drug. He could feel muscle and skin growing back, repairing irreversible damage in only a matter of minutes and effectively sending him on an adrenaline high. Wolfwood lay in wait until the last of his face was restored-his nose, oddly enough-before standing weakly on his own two feet.
His lips worked into a deranged smirk as he glanced at his tormentor with dark, angry eyes. That bitch hadn't noticed. Obviously hadn't planned this out in it's entirety, because she would've accounted for that.
He slowly advanced towards where she sat, breath ragged. She was going to fucking pay.