“Am I Supposed To Be Grateful To Have Survived This?”

Toshiro Mifune as Detective Murakami in Stray Dog (1949) dir. Akira Kurosawa

What you did and where you’re coming from I don’t care, as long as you love me, baby. - for @glycerineclown​

Whumpay - Day 1

Main Challenge - Mad Science - Strapped To An Operating Table Mini Challenge 1 - Torture - Tortured For Information Fandom - The Man from UNCLE (2015)

When the two telephone calls came, one after another with a twelve second pause in between them, Solo shrugged into his coat. Then sat back down in the armchair and looked up to the clock. Three o’clock. He would have to wait until nightfall, roughly three more hours.

Coat on, knee bouncing, and barely reading his paperback book, Solo waited the three requisite hours.

When the distant cathedral bell began to ring out six o’clock, Solo was out of his chair at the first toll, and out of the front door by the third toll.

When he stepped out into the chilly night air he forced himself to slow down, lit a cigarette, and begin a slow and circuitous route towards the dead drop.

Finally, he wandered into the abandoned brickyard. The city was quiet around him.

Ears pricked, Solo flicked his cigarette away, and crouched by a low, crumbling wall. He pulled out the specific brick. It grated pleasantly against its brothers. Solo retrieved the small package from the hollow and replaced the brick.

It was done. He straightened up.

Then the world exploded.

Bright light.

A blow to his nose. Another to a kidney.

Solo found his face pressed into the gravel of the ground. He could taste the brick dust. And the blood gushing from his nose and down his throat.

“Tie his hands.” Someone hissed.

Solo was grabbed and pulled to his feet.

The searing light was shone into his eyes again and Solo groaned. He panted around a mouthful of blood. His hands were roughly tied. Then, with a firm grip on each arm, he was frog-marched to a nearby car and shoved into the trunk.

The door was slammed shut. Complete darkness.

Moments later, the engine roared to life.

Solo caught his breath. He only had a few minutes to puzzle through this. The first order of business was to untie his hands. This was easy enough. They had made the mistake in tying them in front instead of behind his back.

As soon as his hands were free, he blindly reached out and explored the trunk’s locking mechanism as best as he could. The back of his head throbbed in time with his racing heart. The jolting car ride caused wave after wave of nausea and dizziness.

He vomited. His skull rang out, hot with agony.

Solo spat, groaned, and with shaky hands got back to work on the lock. They must have hit him pretty hard.

After a few minutes, and with the help of a lockpick he had in the lining of his coat, Solo popped open the trunk. He was careful not to open the trunk fully and eyed his surroundings. They were bouncing down an old dirt road with only trees on either side. Lovely. The middle of nowhere.

Well, no time like the present.

Solo thrust the trunk door open fully and jumped.

The guidance of 'tuck and roll' felt more like wishful thinking at that moment.

It was a whirlwind of pain.

Finally he found himself flat on his back, looking at the night sky. So many stars.

Solo rolled over and retched again but nothing came up. His head, obviously, was still very painful. He gasped for air, keening with every inhale.

The sound of screeching brakes and slamming care doors.

Shit.

The sound of boots pounding the dirt road. Towards him.

Solo tried to get his legs under him but fell, pain lancing up his left leg. He hit the ground, hard. As rough hands grabbed him again, he saw that his foot stuck out at an odd angle. Broken.

Time dilated. Solo could only focus on breathing. At one moment, he found himself in the backseat of a car, held upright between two men. The next, he was being pulled from the car, foot dragging on the ground. He screamed. And retched. His skull felt as though it would explode. Solo blacked out.

It was the grating agony of his ankle and foot that woke him. Blackness. Until Solo cracked his eyes. A dim room. He could not move.

A moment later he was a little more awake.

He was bound tightly to a table, the ceiling and it’s lone light-bulb looming over him.

The door at the far end of the room opened and two men stepped through; one was older with gray hair and rolled up shirt sleeves and the other was younger, fair-haired, and tall.

And then the questions began.

The haze of his broken ankle and throbbing skull covered Solo like a pall. He could not keep up. As soon as he understood what they were asking him, they were on to the next question. And when they did not get answers quick enough, they cut off his clothes and resorted to other methods of persuasion.

Why were you at that brickyard after dark?

They pulled a cloth over his head and drowned him in cold water.

Who planted the information you retrieved?

They put out their cigarettes on his bare skin.

Who do you work for?

They pressed hard upon his broken ankle and made him scream. They ground the bones against each other. His left lower leg was swollen and almost black with bruises.

Solo did not talk.

He fell into a stupor and woke only to pain. He wished for death. Anything but this.

Hours passed. Maybe even days. He lost track. He did not care. It was eternity either way.

So when he felt the shackles around his wrists removed and someone beginning to work on the shackles about his ankles, he lay there quietly and let them do as they wished.

He gasped when the band about his broken ankle fell off and the blood began to flow again under the bruised flesh.

A warm hand was pressed to his cheek. Gently. That was odd.

“You are awake?” A soft voice.

Maybe he had gone insane. Or maybe this was a new way to torture him.

Solo opened his eyes and saw the blurry face of Illya hovering there.

He certainly hadn’t expected that.

Solo licked his cracked, dry lips. “It’s difficult to tell.” He rasped. In the harsh light from above, Solo could see the lines about Illya’s mouth tighten.

“Come.” Illya began the process of helping Solo off the operating table. “We must go. Where are your clothes?”

Solo had begun to violently shake, his muscles cramping hard, as he tried to stand. He could not speak through the shivering and only shook his head.

Another frown from Illya.

Solo became afraid. The shivering made him ache. The room spun about him. If he was not helpful, would Illya leave him behind? If he was too slow, would Illya decide he was just too much trouble to rescue?

Solo swallowed hard against a dry throat.

Then he straightened up. He tried to still his shaking. And he only leaned on Illya for a little support. Finally, he was able to speak. “They cut them off me. They’re gone.”

Solo felt rather than saw Illya nod. “I have a blanket in the car.”

“Let’s go.” Solo hissed.

Solo had one arm across Illya’s shoulders, while Illya held Solo close to him with a warm grip on his waist. Illya’s hand on his bare, bruised skin was so warm. And gentle. Together, they limped slowly out.

Solo stared only at the floor was they went, focusing on keeping his balance and moving as fast as he could.

He didn’t want to be left behind.

The cold night air hit him and Solo suppressed another bout of violent shivers, groaning with the effort to stay upright.

“Nearly there.” Illya murmured softy, his voice rumbling against Solo’s bruised chest.

Illya sounded almost like he was trying to comfort him.

Solo heard a car door open and he was lifted inside, laid across the backseat. The door closed. Then the other back door opened, another gust of cold wind, and Illya slipped in beside Solo.

“The blanket.” Illya whispered as he laid something warm over Solo’s bare limbs.

Maybe Illya said something else. Solo wasn’t sure. His ears were ringing. And he was sinking. He was falling. He felt the warm hand on his face again. Then nothing.

Prodigal Son 1x11 - Malcolm is stabbed by John Watkins

Russell Crowe in Mystery, Alaska

Ice pack

Graceland 1x09

MEDIWHUMP MAY PROMPTS

Mediwhump May. It's dirty medicine.

Welcome to Mediwhump May. 31 days, 31 prompts. The only limit is your imagination.

Don't forget to tag @mediwhumpmay and use your tags #mediwhumpmay

IV /Cannula

Stitches

Seizure

Pain

No Response

Needlephobic

First Night in Hospital

Scared of Blood

Oxygen

Short of Breath

Withdrawal

"Just one more sip."

Surgery

Loss of Consciousness

Nausea / Vomiting

Dizzy

"Stay awake for me."

Stabbing

Emergency Room

Breakdown

Field Medicine

Doctor Becomes the Patient

Bleeding Out

"We've got you now." / "You're safe."

Shaking

Sedation

Car Crash

No Screaming

Head Injury

Choke

Ambulance Ride

Bonus / Alternative Prompts

No Pain relief

Infection

Poisoning

Broken Bones

Teeth

Whumptober 2022 | No. 19: ENOUGH IS ENOUGH

knees buckling | repeatedly passing out | head lolling

Blood & Treasure s02e13: “Danny. Hey. Wake up. Help’s on the way. Help’s on the way.” — “I’m sorry I’m bleeding all over you.”

Carnivàle S02E05

I’m dead. The sounds he makes. I am dead.

Whumpay - Day 5

Main Challenge - Mad Science - Truth Potion/Serum/Spell Mini Challenge 5 - Torture - Recorded/Broadcast Torture Original Work - Blackburn

“How is he?”

Morgan Lynch stopped as he was passing the doorway to the parlor, took a step back, and saw Professor Collins sitting there.

“Oh.” Morgan tried to school his face into something less upset. “He’s fine. He’s…” Morgan trailed off, searching for the right words to describe it.

Ennis was upstairs in one of the guest bedrooms, tossing and turning. He was sweating and pale. His eyes were sunken. And Morgan had heard him muttering softly in his sleep. He was not well. That much was obvious.

“Sleeping.” Morgan finally said.

“Good, good.” Professor Collins gestured to the opposite armchair by the fire. “Would you join me?”

Morgan hesitated a moment more. He’d rather not. He’d rather sit in the kitchen and stew. But he nodded and smiled. “Thank you.” Morgan sat down opposite the professor.

“Tea?”

“Uh, no. Thank you though.” Morgan didn’t really like tea.

“Something stronger?” Professor Collins tried again.

Morgan shook his head and that made him notice his throbbing headache. This whole night was just too much for him. He was exhausted. And so very confused.

“It can be a bit of a shock, I’m afraid.” The professor stood up from his armchair, stroking his very white beard. It contrasted starkly with his dark mane of hair.

“What?”

Professor Collins limped over to an old phonograph and began to fiddle with it. “Mr. Ennis Hunnicutt’s gift.”

“Oh.”

Morgan could not help but have Ennis’s face flash before his mind’s eye, deathly white, with eyes rolled back, and speaking in that strange language. The syllables that Ennis had pronounced were chilling. Morgan didn’t understand why. But just remembering the sound of it. The way the unknown words wormed their way between his teeth, made it difficult to breathe, had Morgan’s heart racing even now.

Morgan cleared his throat and tried to calm himself. “Is it a gift?” He asked. It seemed more like a curse.

“Most certainly.” Replied Professor Collins. “In all my years of research, I have never found someone as gifted as he.”

Morgan swallowed hard. What did that mean? What kind of gift would do so much harm? “What is he?”

The professor straightened up. He was gingerly holding a wax cylinder. “A medium.” He answered. Seemed to consider it a moment, then added. “Of sorts.”

The professor held up the wax cylinder. “I have this here, a recording of one of Ennis’s trances, would you like to hear it?”

Morgan felt a wave of revulsion rise in him. “Why do you have-”

“It’s quite short, I assure you.” Professor Collins had already turned around and was loading the cylinder into the phonograph. “It was recorded years ago, when the Divine Order was still intact.”

The Divine Order? Morgan was lost. But he had no energy to object. In fact, he felt a sick sort of curiosity. Before he could decide whether he wanted to hear this recording or not, it began to play.

The sound was rough and difficult to make out in parts. But most of it was clear enough to understand.

A scratchy, high-pitched voice rang out first. A woman’s voice. “The twenty-second of December, in the year nineteen hundred and fourteen. And it is our Ennis’s birthday. He has been dosed with the serum and is ready to speak with us.”

There was a shuffling sound. Then more speaking. “Ennis, my darling, can you hear me?”

A pause.

And then, Morgan’s heart clenched.

“Yes, I can hear you.” It was a young boy’s voice. A child. He spoke dreamily, doubtless due to the substance they had given him.

“Make the first cut.” The scratchy-voiced woman ordered.

Young Ennis cried out in pain over the recording.

Morgan jumped to his feet, his lips tingling as he felt the blood drain out of his face.

The recording continued, Ennis’s sobs becoming a soft background melody to the scratchy woman’s voice. She spoke a string of strange syllables that rang nauseatingly familiar.

The sobs ceased suddenly.

Then, young Ennis began to drone, slurring his words. “The Eater of Stars, Endless Maw, approaches. Nearer and nearer-”

“Make the second cut!” The woman screeched.

Morgan felt sweat break out on his forehead.

Young Ennis cried out again, the sob turning into a long wail and more words. “The Eye is open and we shall all walk through the doorway. Arrival! Arrival is nigh!”

“The third cut!”

“I am the Tooth of the Eater! I will bite the Stars!”

A shuffling sound and the high-pitched breathy voice of the woman rang out. “Where is the doorway, Ennis? Tell us where it is!”

“Burning black. The teardrop.” Ennis’s voice slowed to a drawl again. He struggled to speak. “The… Eye is… The Eye open.”

“Bind the wounds. He’s bleeding too much.” The woman hissed. “Ennis? My darling? Stay awake, please.”

Someone in the background cried out. “Call the doctor!”

Then silence.

Morgan started. Professor Collins had stood up as well and was unloading the wax cylinder from the phonograph. Morgan ran a hand down his face and took a deep breath.

“What the devil was that?” He spat.

The professor looked up, surprised but still calm. “As I said, it is a recording of one of Ennis’s trances.”

“But-” Morgan searched for words. “They were mutilating him. He was a child. I don’t understand.”

“I’ll explain.” Came a soft voice from the parlor doorway.

Morgan whirled around. Ennis stood there, still waxen pale and sweating. He looked so weak, leaning on the doorway for support. His eyes stood out starkly in his face, the firelight flickering in them.