Breaking Benjamin (NSFW, 18+)

Copypastaing some meta in here, for a potential Geist character when I get my act together.

[7/16/16, 7:05:39 PM] Zin Karyuu: Breaking Benjamin today
[7/16/16, 7:06:18 PM] albedo: petition to put a character named benjamin on the rack
[7/16/16, 7:06:22 PM] albedo: sounds fun :D
[7/16/16, 7:06:28 PM] Zin Karyuu: Go ahead? :0

ETA: TW FOR A BIT, FOLKS
[7/16/16, 7:06:34 PM] albedo: 8D
[7/16/16, 7:06:36 PM] albedo: ... coughs
[7/16/16, 7:06:44 PM] albedo: does NOT plot a geist character named benjamin
[7/16/16, 7:06:52 PM] Zin Karyuu: >:3c
[7/16/16, 7:06:57 PM] albedo: >>;;;
[7/16/16, 7:06:58 PM] albedo: 8D
[7/16/16, 7:07:44 PM] Zin Karyuu: This wasn't the way you expected it to go. Ever.

Who the fuck has a medieval torture dungeon, anyway?

...these fuckers, apparently.
[7/16/16, 7:08:30 PM] albedo: For fuck's sake, you're not even a vampire! You don't have fangs, you're not even white! But does that matter to these idiots?
[7/16/16, 7:08:49 PM] albedo: Apparently not. Apparently keeping a nocturnal schedule and photographing the wrong buildings is all the proof they need.
[7/16/16, 7:10:28 PM] Zin Karyuu: ...to be fair, you're not sure they think you're a vampire, or what the hell they want, but it's as good a guess as any for why anyone would do something like this.
[7/16/16, 7:10:45 PM] Zin Karyuu: The woman at the wheel gives it another turn, face expressionless.
[7/16/16, 7:11:46 PM] albedo: It hurts. A lot. You scream. You haven't cared about embarrassment for hours; now, the only reason you try to hold back is to save your aching, hoarse throat. And anyway, you don't succeed.
[7/16/16, 7:12:37 PM] albedo: It's funny; the only reason you've really heard of the rack is from Muppet Treasure Island. And that wasn't nearly as horrific as this. You think you're going to tear apart, every time she turns the wheel, that something will give way and just rip off.
[7/16/16, 7:13:20 PM] Zin Karyuu: She keeps watching. Like.. like she's waiting for something anything.

But no.

She just.

She waits.

Waits until the pain starts to fade.

Then she gives it another slow turn.
[7/16/16, 7:14:26 PM] albedo: You scream again. You've lost track of your screams. Something in your hip gives a sick, wet pop. And somehow, in the middle of all that, it comes to your attention that your nose really itches.
[7/16/16, 7:14:28 PM] albedo: Fuck your life.
[7/16/16, 7:15:17 PM] Zin Karyuu: The pop of your hip is the first thing that elicits a sound from the woman, a low, pleased little giggle that runs up your spine like ice.
[7/16/16, 7:15:48 PM] Zin Karyuu: Then she moves the wheel just a little more, eyes bright.
[7/16/16, 7:17:06 PM] albedo: This time, it's your elbow that pops, stretched beyond the breaking point. You stare at her, more terrified by her pleasure than the continuing torture. "Wh..." You try to speak, but your voice has long since faded from hours of screams. "...why..."
[7/16/16, 7:17:14 PM] albedo: It's nothing you haven't asked before. But... but still.
[7/16/16, 7:17:19 PM] albedo: Why. Why this. Why you.
[7/16/16, 7:21:42 PM] Zin Karyuu: She simply grins, wide, and turns the wheel, speaking for the first time as your body gives another jerk and pop. "You'll see soon enough."
[7/16/16, 7:33:51 PM] Zin Karyuu: :p
[7/16/16, 7:34:48 PM] Nick: What the fuck did I come back to


ETA: @theprettiestboy drew art!! Excited screeching!!
https://kintsugi.seebs.net/threads/dead-dove-do-not-eat.3469/page-29#post-338759

 

The night air is cool, brisk, a little bracing.

It drifts in from a half-cracked window, and the sun.... well. It's been down for hours, now, but that's fine. You don't need it.

Your current job has just been completed, and has finally been sent off... leaving you with a strange empty lack of things to occupy your time.

Well, ones that pay, anyway.

 

It's always oddly uncomfortable to finish up a project. He's spent the last few weeks carrying a hundred variables and algorithms around in his head, and now it's just... done. His mind is still running its gears on a problem that doesn't exist anymore.

He sits back in his chair, looking out the window and cracking his knuckles.

Hell. It's two in the morning. Nothing's going to happen until morning, and he's had too much caffeine to sleep any time soon.

Maybe he'll just order a pizza. He can't remember when he last ate. Breakfast, maybe?

 

An email pops up on his screen.

Excellent work, Mr Halverson. I've done you the courtesy of ordering you a meal in thanks for your prompt and effective work. I hope you like pizza.

There's a loud, insistent rap on his front door, and a chirp of "Delivery~"

 

Benjamin blinks slowly at the computer, frowning. Okay, so, uh... It's been like twenty minutes since he shipped the code off. That's a creepily fast turnaround time, even if his "anonymous client" was watching the commits. At two in the morning. At his fucking house.

This is... uh. Weird.

But on the other hand... pizza. And he's a programmer; he's... he's curious.

He goes to the door, opening it up warily. "Uh... hey."

 

The woman on the other side of the door is smiling brightly. "Benjamin Halverson?"

 

"... Uh. Yeah. Do you need me to sign something, or..."

Fuck, what's he even wearing? He looks down at himself, grimacing in distaste. He... definitely changed clothes today, right?

He's been programming since he woke up at five, he... might have forgotten.

"... who sent you, anyway?"

 

"No, just needed to confirm," she chirps, reaching into the thermal bag she's holding. "And I was sent by your employer, of course."

That's not a pizza.

That's... a spray can?

She grins wickedly and depresses the button on the top, spraying Benjamin in the face.

 

That is not a pizza. He has just enough time to freeze, eyes wide, before everything goes black.

Fuck.

Why?

 

Veronica tosses the empty bag to one side and slides the canister into her belt, stepping forwards to grab the front of Benjamin's shirt so he'll fall forwards, into her arms, instead of crashing to the ground. "Perfect."

She tilts his head, examining his face thoughtfully. "....yes, excellent choice leaving this one for last."

She lets out a cheerful whistle, then drags him from the apartment and into her waiting van, before flipping out her phone and making a few calls...

No need to leave anything in the apartment, after all. Just need to make it look like he up and left - some people do, and agoraphobic critters like Mr. Halverson?

That usually means no one knows them, or will know them enough to realize just how unlike them the move would be.

She locks the doors, and heads home, singing quietly to herself...

"Tiptoe through the window
By the window, that is where I'll be
Come tiptoe through the tulips with me..."

 

Waking feels like scuba diving, with slow increases in awareness and long, blank plateaus. It feels like an eternity before he can open his eyes. It's even longer before he recognizes that he's not at home, that he can't move. There are ropes tied around his wrists and ankles, holding him spread-eagled, and the vulnerability of it is enough to have him wide-eyed and panicky before he really even registers his surroundings.

This is insane. It's completely insane, so much so that it feels pointless even to beg for his life. Who kidnaps a shut-in programmer? He doesn't even know anything interesting. All his employer gave him was crazy test-data about werewolves and shit, like she didn't even trust him with the actual field names.

"... let me go. This is... this is stupid, there's no point in this. Just let me go."

He can't see much around him, since he can't move, but what he does see isn't at all reassuring.

 

There are other implements of torture, and the dried up husk of a body strapped to a nearby slab, just visible from the corner of his eyes, certainly doesn't help make him feel any safer. The walls are concrete, and there's an array of nasty tools dead in the center of his vision, just below a set of shelves littered with jars that have been painstakingly numbered, named, and have various occult symbols sharpied onto their surfaces.

There are shapes moving in the jars, like mist, faint lights pulsing, a glimpse of sharp teeth, fingers pressed against the glass.

No one answers him.

He's alone for a very long time before he hears a door open and footsteps begin to descend.

 

He's just... he's hallucinating, it's just the stress, he's fine. There definitely aren't monsters in the jars, there is not a dead body beside him, none of this makes sense, he's just... He's dreaming, he's dreaming, he's dreaming.

By the time the door opens, he's had at least three anxiety attacks, rubbed his wrists and ankles raw trying to escape, and rucked up his shirt as he wriggles. It's the last that's the most distracting, cold metal against his back, in an already-frigid basement room, and he can't stop shaking from the cold. It feels like it's seeping into his bones.

He stiffens, tugging at his bonds with a last burst of panicky energy as his captor descends. He does not believe in aliens or mad scientists, the weird shit he sees is just the product of an overactive mind. He does not believe in this, in any of this, he's dreaming.

"... just let me go," he says, his voice a cracked whimper. "This doesn't... it doesn't make any sense."

 

A cheerful, lilting whistle fills the air as the heavy boots descend the steps, peppy and full of energy. The woman who comes into his line of sight has her arms laden with more jars, some of which appear to be actively jolting and fighting to tumble free of her grip, with more stuffed in the pockets of her tidy white labcoat.

Her dark hair is neatly pulled back and her face is familiar - the woman from the night before - but she pays him little mind as she gets the jars carefully added to the shelves and pulls a mirror over, along with a set of... cosmetics?

"Hello my baby, hello my darling, hello my sunshine gal~" She peels off her coat, hanging it neatly nearby before dipping her fingers into the paint jars at her side and beginning to paint her face.

 

"... this isn't happening," Benjamin whispers to himself.

The... the pizza girl. Looking at her makes him nauseous, like she jolts half an inch to the side whenever his eyes focus on something else, her outline wavering.

This is not happening. He fights harder to get away, whimpering softly as the bonds tear his wrists open again. One drop of blood runs ticklishly down his forearm, halfway to his elbow.

"What are you doing?"

He has a sneaking suspicion that this might be his employer, and that she's even more insane than he expected, from the constantly-shifting project requirements. He can start to make out the design on her face, and that skullface is really not reassuring him even a little bit.

 

"Patience." Her voice snaps, singing cutting off. "You've got nothing but time. No need to rush me."

She shakes her head, lifting the mirror and tilting her head back and forth, checking her reflection, humming. "....yes, I agree. That looks right."

She wipes her hands clean and turns, and the strange, jerking motion happens again, her image swimming in his vision. Her eyes run over him, head to toe, and her blue-tinted lips purse. "....you know, I'd think you would be doing your best to prevent injury to yourself, Mr. Halverson."

She picks up a little kit from where it was hidden behind the dried husk on the steel operating table and strides over. "Stay still. I don't need you causing unnecessary damage. Certainly not with a lack of supervision."

 

He shudders, staring at her. He's never seen a person who looks like one of those things. One of his delusions.

It's... it's just the stress. He freezes in place anyway, breath coming rabbit-fast as he tries not to hyperventilate again.

"You put me on a vivisection table right next to your last experiment, what were you fucking expecting me to do??"

God. He's going to die here, isn't he. He's spent so many years expecting to just snap and walk in front of a bus, and instead the end is some fucking insanity at the hands of someone else's delusions. He could almost laugh, if he weren't so terrified.

 

"You aren't on a vivisection table," she chides. "You're on the rack. There's a very, very big difference, Mr. Halverson." She opens the kit and pulls out an alcohol wipe, carefully swiping up the blood on his arm and examining the damage he's caused to himself.

She tisks. "...just look at this, already rubbing raw. I'll need to change these out... mmh."

 

"..." Benjamin swallows hard. "... the rack? Are we in a ... a goddamned medieval castle? Is this just how you get your kicks??? I don't know anything, and it's not like anyone has witch trials anymore!"

He jerks convulsively when she touches him, trying to get away. "Don't touch me!"

Being touched is always awful. Sometimes he can feel smooth, ice-cold bone, instead of living flesh, like it's just a skeleton standing before him. With the pizza lady, it's... worse.

It's just the stress.

It feels like that distortion in space carries through, like somehow she... overlaps with him, and he can feel something like icy, stagnant water, sliding half an inch beneath his skin, dragging across his bones.

"Don't touch me, don't-- don't--" He's hyperventilating in earnest now, thrashing in panic as the anxiety attack starts, and his heart pounds faster and faster in his ears. He can't stop himself.

 

"No. You're in my workroom." Her voice is an even drawl, and she stares him in the eyes as she reaches forwards again, gripping his arm and refusing to let go. "Oh. Believe me, I'll be doing anything I want, and there is absolutely nothing you can do to stop me."

She presses forwards, gripping his jaw with one hand. "Stay still, you're being counterproductive!"