The man who was their liaison with the Altissian government had never disclosed his rank, but Ignis suspected he was an undersecretary of a very low ranking official, which was terribly improper, but then given the circumstances it was also rather arrogant to begrudge the more important staff on more important matters. Even when it became clear that his status was because of his appalling inefficiency and general lack of communication. So when, one late afternoon, it seemed that they were going to be missing dinner, instead of sitting tight and hoping the matter would fix itself, Ignis had set out into the city to find them their own food.
Gladio and Prompto were out helping the people of Altissia recover amongst the carnage of their city; Noctis was recovering in bed – or, at least, Ignis hoped he was. He’d only woken yesterday and was still far too weak to be exerting himself. None of them knew about this little excursion, and Ignis planned to keep it that way.
Of course, the most sensible option by far would be to head into the government offices and try his hand at bureaucracy. He was distinctive both in appearance and the names he was attached to, and of course he had the practice and skill at it. He would no doubt be successful there.
He went out into the city instead – as if it were like old times, and the city wasn’t in ruins and the food not merely what tins and packets had been salvaged from the ruins, the fresh produce coming in from nearby farms and storage getting snatched up before it made it to the central market no matter how inflated the prices. As if he wasn’t blind and fumbling and aching all over, a non-stop pain like a little stone wedged inside his skull.
He'd asked three people for the directions to the central market, an emergency set-up by the government that had swelled with people wanting to trade their bags of rice for medication, for soap and clothes and pet food. It wasn't that he'd forgotten the first person's directions, just that perhaps he hadn't quite trusted it, or the second person's directions either, and, well, if all three people agreed on the best route then he probably shouldn't have to worry.
Except that–
'Oh, sir,' a man said, and it took a moment and a gentle touch on his upper arm before he realised the man was talking to him. 'You're heading into a dead end; that road's blocked.'
Ignis paused. He was certain that this was the route he had arrived to the market by, but then perhaps whilst he'd been buying what food he could it had been blocked off by something or other. A building may have collapsed, or military vehicles were now parked there. Or, it could be a trick, an attempt to violently mug him by getting him onto one of the deserted side streets. And whatever the reason then it would still be unwise to step off his known route.
He hadn’t brought all their money with him, just enough to buy dinner, and there was little else on him he’d miss if it were stolen. The food would be inconvenient but no more. His phone – that would be unfortunate, but hardly devastating.
'Sir?'
‘Ah,’ Ignis said. ‘Thank you. You wouldn’t happen to know a way around it, would you?’
‘Of course, no problem, there’s a street parallel you can go on…’ The touch on Ignis’ arm disappeared then appeared again at his elbow, gently guiding him.
Ignis stumbled as the pavement gave way to road, then managed to catch the little rise on the other side of the road with his stick. Their Altissian undersecretary had promised him a proper cane but as of yet nothing had been procured, so he made do with a walking stick Prompto had picked up on the first day.
The street they’d been on was quiet, compared to the market. This one was next to silent. The air tasted of dust, still, and something foul that was leaking into the canals from broken pipes below street level. The man beside him made a noise as if he was about to say something, but changed his mind. Ignis could hear him breathe very clearly, and the sound of his clothes as he moved, and his footsteps. Machinery in the distance.
Another person was walking behind them, catching up. A man, or a heavy-footed woman. On Ignis’ left, perhaps. It was hard to tell. He would need to become better at that, and quickly. Perhaps he could get Gladiolus and Prompto to help him practice–
The swish and crack registered a second before the pain; then his head split open with agony, the ground rough beneath his hands and knees. Nothing but the roaring of blood in his ears and the pain, swallowing him whole. Very distantly he felt the hot wetness of blood on the back of his neck. Even more distantly, disappointment.
He couldn’t move, couldn’t quite work out his limbs, couldn’t hear, couldn’t see what was happening. His head was spinning and he wondered briefly if he was indeed falling, except no, he could feel the ground beneath him, unless the whole street was collapsing into the canals below. There was pressure on his back, on his shoulders, he couldn’t seem to get back up again. His eyes were screwed shut, he realised, because the agony made them feel like they might burst and dribble out of their sockets. He couldn’t move his neck for the pain like a dagger in the base of his skull.
Something in his mouth – a gritty wad of cloth – and the world spun again, and he was upright, perhaps, something solid beneath his feet. Hands on his upper arms, half pulling, half dragging him. They didn’t want to just mug him, then.
He’d dropped his stick. He summoned a knife in his right hand, though he could barely feel it, barely force his fingers to hold it tight. With his left hand he grabbed out, found loose fabric, and used the weight of the body being pulled towards him to aim. Swing the blade, do less damage than a well aimed stab, but be more likely to damage at all than a poorly aimed one. A scream – it was a man, approaching middle age – shouting all around him – there were at least several others surrounding them – Ignis struck out again and his knife wedged into the man’s body, probably caught between two ribs, and Ignis let go rather than waste time and effort trying to pull it out, summoning another in his left hand as his right was seized – he swung, caught something but barely, swung again at whoever was holding his right wrist but met nothing. The grip disappeared. He spat the gag from his mouth. His spells had all been depleted; if only–
Something hit him on the back, across his shoulder blades. His knife dropped from his nerveless fingers. Resisted the urge to find and pick it back up. Unsummon it, summon again, both of them, one in each hand, the floor spinning and he felt sick and the roaring in his ears and his own panting breath meant he couldn’t hear where anyone was, couldn’t do anything but stand there, waiting, swaying, helpless–
They hit his legs this time, the backs of his knees, and he went down awkwardly on one side. Scrambled up again, swinging out around him, meeting nothing but air. He could hear them talk but couldn’t make himself understand the words. His head was alight with pain, slicing down every nerve, stabbing into the backs of his eyes, down his spine. A moment’s pause. Concentrate. Someone was angry, was trying to ask for help keeping Anuris alive, someone else said to shut the fuck up he’s already dead.
A blow to Ignis’ upper arm, not hard enough to crack the bone but more than sufficient to force him to drop his knife. He cradled his arm to his chest, breath a hiss through his clenched jaws. The sound of smashing glass made him flinch and twist to face the source, but nothing more came of it. Behind him, a crash of something metal on metal. They didn’t want to get too close and risk his blades. They were trying to wear him down, safely out of range.
They were succeeding, of course.
The sound of something heavy being dragged.
His knife was trembling, arm straining with the effort of holding it up in front of him when every bone in his body ached, begged just to stop, battle stance ready when he knew and they knew it was entirely useless: a single, tiny point of defence with every other side wide open to attack.
A sound, the stamp of a boot – Ignis spun around to face it but again, that was it. He could try to break out of their circle around him, except that he was disorientated and more than likely to run straight into the side of a building or car, if he didn’t manage to trip over and fall straight over or directly into one of the men. He could shout for help, except that his throat was tight and dry and if he tried that they’d no doubt finish him off and run before anyone arrived, if anyone was within hearing distance and would want to arrive to help in the first place.
Ignis shifted, trying to find his balance and failing. They wanted him for more than just his money: they could have stolen whatever they wanted immediately after the first attack. They couldn’t think that if let him go now he might identify them and put them at risk later, but he was apparently valuable enough that even after killing one of them they hadn’t given up. Or was it just that they counted their number as so invaluable as not to matter? They’d been trying to drag him somewhere. Did they want information on Noctis? A ransom? Had someone hired them for the job or were they doing it for themselves? Maybe they just wanted to hurt someone and it didn’t matter who. Maybe he just made an irresistible, easy target.
There was not enough information. He could try to reason with them, tell them his friends would pay far more than what he had on him for his safe release. He doubted he could escape – couldn’t do it without killing them all first, couldn’t kill them all even though he needed to. They were probably just civilians, criminals for sure but hardly monsters...
Gods, his head hurt. He was tired. He could feel the stickiness of blood soaking into his collar and matting his hair into tufts, running down his face from old, broken open scabs, dripping off his chin. He’d already lost too much blood when he’d lost his eyes; he couldn’t afford this, now.
No… not quite. What did it matter if he lost too much blood? He couldn’t support Noctis either way.
A man stamped to his left and Ignis flinched towards him, adjusting his stance, redundant muscle memory. Laughter, rough and wild, high on adrenaline. Ignis only just managed to stop himself throwing his knife at the source. He’d only miss.
When would they tire of this game? He was sick of it. He was sick to the back teeth of all of it. Let the street cave in and kill every last one of them.
They brought him down with another strike to the back of his head, and when Ignis came to he was on the ground, his hands clasped, palms together, tied up with thick rope. No chance of summoning any weapons, then; he kicked and twisted as he was hauled up, dragged by his arms along the road, up onto the pavement, in through an open door. Smooth wooden floorboards, the lingering smell of dog and laundry, distinctive even through the reek of blood in his nose.
Rolled face-down onto something soft – a mattress on the floor. Oh. So this was what they wanted. His hands were secured above his head, one of his legs pulled straight and rope tied around his ankle, keeping it outstretched. Ignis kicked with his free leg, trying to get it under him for the leverage to pull at his bindings, but something heavy on his back held him down. Hands on his neck, squeezing his throat as his belt was undone and his trousers and underwear pulled down around his ankles. His shoes were yanked off, trousers tangled around the ankle of his bound leg.
He couldn’t cry – he was physically unable to produce tears, now. He’d realised that very early on, when the pain had driven him what felt like half-insane, when he’d refused medication because someone else must surely need it more, when two days later when he’d turned up in Gladio’s bedroom at night and begged for it – he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t force food down his throat, couldn’t think, couldn’t move for the pain – only by then there’d been none left.
He couldn’t scream – the hand around his throat made sure of that. Ignis wasn’t entirely sure he would do either, cry or scream, even if he could, but something was howling inside him, tearing at the walls of his body that was containing it. The gag was forced back into his throat, this time tied properly around the back of his head, and then the hand around his neck left, and Ignis shuddered with what air he could manage through his nose, blowing blood bubbles with each rasping breath.
Hands groped at him, a pair on his arse, and cold lube and fingers pushing against then inside him. Ignis bit down on his gag, hard, grinding his forehead into the mattress. He’d done this before – not like this, but still – he knew it’d hurt. His whole body was a knotted ball of pain, held together with a spider’s web of self-control, and he didn’t know if this would be what broke the weave of silk threads. He could barely perform normality for Noctis, Gladio and Prompto, barely keep it together in public, and now? A man sat on his upper thighs, skin-on-skin; he was hairy, and slightly damp with sweat. Ignis clenched up, even though he knew it’d be better if he didn’t, but he could hardly breathe, and when the man pushed in he couldn’t help the sound that came out, muffled through the gag. Not even a word – just a noise, like an animal.
He couldn’t do it. It hurt. He just wanted it to stop. He had so little left, so fucking little, and now they were taking even this from him.
The man thrusting into him – short, irregular motions – leant forwards and put his hands on Ignis’ shoulders, shuffling to get a better position. The other men were jeering, laughing, and Ignis didn’t need to try to drown them out; the roaring in his ears, pain thumping in to his staccato heart-beat, did it for him. He heard the sound of a shutter on a camera – the digital copy, not the true mechanical click – someone had their phone out, Ignis realised. They were taking photos of this.
Sometime after the first man had finished and the second started, grunting, leaning low over Ignis’ back so his flabby stomach brushed against him with every thrust, Ignis realised that the rope tying his hands together was coming loose. His wrists were rubbed raw and bound as tight as ever, but his swollen fingers had the space to wriggle against each other.
The third man was bony, stroked his hands down Ignis’ back, and whispered endearments into his ear as he applied more lube to counter the tacky blood.
Ignis gutted him with the knife he summoned, knots worked just loose enough to fit the hilt between his palms without breaking the delicate bones there, the blade slicing through the rope tying his wrists to the ground and then the man’s stomach with equal ease. The man screamed, and kept screaming as he disappeared from Ignis’ back, and the blood pouring onto Ignis told him that he’d severed an artery and therefore could concentrate on the rope tying his ankle, and then the first, second and fourth men.
The first man tackled Ignis and received a hole in his throat for his troubles, a long slash that Ignis felt going through the cartilage of his windpipe. He fell, hacked and gurgled on the floor, joining in with the third whose screams had turned to frightened sobs, getting weaker with every second.
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timeasmymeasure
FILL - [1a/?]
Date: 2017-02-23 01:04 am (UTC)The man who was their liaison with the Altissian government had never disclosed his rank, but Ignis suspected he was an undersecretary of a very low ranking official, which was terribly improper, but then given the circumstances it was also rather arrogant to begrudge the more important staff on more important matters. Even when it became clear that his status was because of his appalling inefficiency and general lack of communication. So when, one late afternoon, it seemed that they were going to be missing dinner, instead of sitting tight and hoping the matter would fix itself, Ignis had set out into the city to find them their own food.
Gladio and Prompto were out helping the people of Altissia recover amongst the carnage of their city; Noctis was recovering in bed – or, at least, Ignis hoped he was. He’d only woken yesterday and was still far too weak to be exerting himself. None of them knew about this little excursion, and Ignis planned to keep it that way.
Of course, the most sensible option by far would be to head into the government offices and try his hand at bureaucracy. He was distinctive both in appearance and the names he was attached to, and of course he had the practice and skill at it. He would no doubt be successful there.
He went out into the city instead – as if it were like old times, and the city wasn’t in ruins and the food not merely what tins and packets had been salvaged from the ruins, the fresh produce coming in from nearby farms and storage getting snatched up before it made it to the central market no matter how inflated the prices. As if he wasn’t blind and fumbling and aching all over, a non-stop pain like a little stone wedged inside his skull.
He'd asked three people for the directions to the central market, an emergency set-up by the government that had swelled with people wanting to trade their bags of rice for medication, for soap and clothes and pet food. It wasn't that he'd forgotten the first person's directions, just that perhaps he hadn't quite trusted it, or the second person's directions either, and, well, if all three people agreed on the best route then he probably shouldn't have to worry.
Except that–
'Oh, sir,' a man said, and it took a moment and a gentle touch on his upper arm before he realised the man was talking to him. 'You're heading into a dead end; that road's blocked.'
Ignis paused. He was certain that this was the route he had arrived to the market by, but then perhaps whilst he'd been buying what food he could it had been blocked off by something or other. A building may have collapsed, or military vehicles were now parked there. Or, it could be a trick, an attempt to violently mug him by getting him onto one of the deserted side streets. And whatever the reason then it would still be unwise to step off his known route.
He hadn’t brought all their money with him, just enough to buy dinner, and there was little else on him he’d miss if it were stolen. The food would be inconvenient but no more. His phone – that would be unfortunate, but hardly devastating.
'Sir?'
‘Ah,’ Ignis said. ‘Thank you. You wouldn’t happen to know a way around it, would you?’
‘Of course, no problem, there’s a street parallel you can go on…’ The touch on Ignis’ arm disappeared then appeared again at his elbow, gently guiding him.
Ignis stumbled as the pavement gave way to road, then managed to catch the little rise on the other side of the road with his stick. Their Altissian undersecretary had promised him a proper cane but as of yet nothing had been procured, so he made do with a walking stick Prompto had picked up on the first day.
The street they’d been on was quiet, compared to the market. This one was next to silent. The air tasted of dust, still, and something foul that was leaking into the canals from broken pipes below street level. The man beside him made a noise as if he was about to say something, but changed his mind. Ignis could hear him breathe very clearly, and the sound of his clothes as he moved, and his footsteps. Machinery in the distance.
Another person was walking behind them, catching up. A man, or a heavy-footed woman. On Ignis’ left, perhaps. It was hard to tell. He would need to become better at that, and quickly. Perhaps he could get Gladiolus and Prompto to help him practice–
The swish and crack registered a second before the pain; then his head split open with agony, the ground rough beneath his hands and knees. Nothing but the roaring of blood in his ears and the pain, swallowing him whole. Very distantly he felt the hot wetness of blood on the back of his neck. Even more distantly, disappointment.
He couldn’t move, couldn’t quite work out his limbs, couldn’t hear, couldn’t see what was happening. His head was spinning and he wondered briefly if he was indeed falling, except no, he could feel the ground beneath him, unless the whole street was collapsing into the canals below. There was pressure on his back, on his shoulders, he couldn’t seem to get back up again. His eyes were screwed shut, he realised, because the agony made them feel like they might burst and dribble out of their sockets. He couldn’t move his neck for the pain like a dagger in the base of his skull.
Something in his mouth – a gritty wad of cloth – and the world spun again, and he was upright, perhaps, something solid beneath his feet. Hands on his upper arms, half pulling, half dragging him. They didn’t want to just mug him, then.
He’d dropped his stick. He summoned a knife in his right hand, though he could barely feel it, barely force his fingers to hold it tight. With his left hand he grabbed out, found loose fabric, and used the weight of the body being pulled towards him to aim. Swing the blade, do less damage than a well aimed stab, but be more likely to damage at all than a poorly aimed one. A scream – it was a man, approaching middle age – shouting all around him – there were at least several others surrounding them – Ignis struck out again and his knife wedged into the man’s body, probably caught between two ribs, and Ignis let go rather than waste time and effort trying to pull it out, summoning another in his left hand as his right was seized – he swung, caught something but barely, swung again at whoever was holding his right wrist but met nothing. The grip disappeared. He spat the gag from his mouth. His spells had all been depleted; if only–
Something hit him on the back, across his shoulder blades. His knife dropped from his nerveless fingers. Resisted the urge to find and pick it back up. Unsummon it, summon again, both of them, one in each hand, the floor spinning and he felt sick and the roaring in his ears and his own panting breath meant he couldn’t hear where anyone was, couldn’t do anything but stand there, waiting, swaying, helpless–
They hit his legs this time, the backs of his knees, and he went down awkwardly on one side. Scrambled up again, swinging out around him, meeting nothing but air. He could hear them talk but couldn’t make himself understand the words. His head was alight with pain, slicing down every nerve, stabbing into the backs of his eyes, down his spine. A moment’s pause. Concentrate. Someone was angry, was trying to ask for help keeping Anuris alive, someone else said to shut the fuck up he’s already dead.
A blow to Ignis’ upper arm, not hard enough to crack the bone but more than sufficient to force him to drop his knife. He cradled his arm to his chest, breath a hiss through his clenched jaws. The sound of smashing glass made him flinch and twist to face the source, but nothing more came of it. Behind him, a crash of something metal on metal. They didn’t want to get too close and risk his blades. They were trying to wear him down, safely out of range.
They were succeeding, of course.
The sound of something heavy being dragged.
His knife was trembling, arm straining with the effort of holding it up in front of him when every bone in his body ached, begged just to stop, battle stance ready when he knew and they knew it was entirely useless: a single, tiny point of defence with every other side wide open to attack.
A sound, the stamp of a boot – Ignis spun around to face it but again, that was it. He could try to break out of their circle around him, except that he was disorientated and more than likely to run straight into the side of a building or car, if he didn’t manage to trip over and fall straight over or directly into one of the men. He could shout for help, except that his throat was tight and dry and if he tried that they’d no doubt finish him off and run before anyone arrived, if anyone was within hearing distance and would want to arrive to help in the first place.
Ignis shifted, trying to find his balance and failing. They wanted him for more than just his money: they could have stolen whatever they wanted immediately after the first attack. They couldn’t think that if let him go now he might identify them and put them at risk later, but he was apparently valuable enough that even after killing one of them they hadn’t given up. Or was it just that they counted their number as so invaluable as not to matter? They’d been trying to drag him somewhere. Did they want information on Noctis? A ransom? Had someone hired them for the job or were they doing it for themselves? Maybe they just wanted to hurt someone and it didn’t matter who. Maybe he just made an irresistible, easy target.
There was not enough information. He could try to reason with them, tell them his friends would pay far more than what he had on him for his safe release. He doubted he could escape – couldn’t do it without killing them all first, couldn’t kill them all even though he needed to. They were probably just civilians, criminals for sure but hardly monsters...
Gods, his head hurt. He was tired. He could feel the stickiness of blood soaking into his collar and matting his hair into tufts, running down his face from old, broken open scabs, dripping off his chin. He’d already lost too much blood when he’d lost his eyes; he couldn’t afford this, now.
No… not quite. What did it matter if he lost too much blood? He couldn’t support Noctis either way.
A man stamped to his left and Ignis flinched towards him, adjusting his stance, redundant muscle memory. Laughter, rough and wild, high on adrenaline. Ignis only just managed to stop himself throwing his knife at the source. He’d only miss.
When would they tire of this game? He was sick of it. He was sick to the back teeth of all of it. Let the street cave in and kill every last one of them.
They brought him down with another strike to the back of his head, and when Ignis came to he was on the ground, his hands clasped, palms together, tied up with thick rope. No chance of summoning any weapons, then; he kicked and twisted as he was hauled up, dragged by his arms along the road, up onto the pavement, in through an open door. Smooth wooden floorboards, the lingering smell of dog and laundry, distinctive even through the reek of blood in his nose.
Rolled face-down onto something soft – a mattress on the floor. Oh. So this was what they wanted. His hands were secured above his head, one of his legs pulled straight and rope tied around his ankle, keeping it outstretched. Ignis kicked with his free leg, trying to get it under him for the leverage to pull at his bindings, but something heavy on his back held him down. Hands on his neck, squeezing his throat as his belt was undone and his trousers and underwear pulled down around his ankles. His shoes were yanked off, trousers tangled around the ankle of his bound leg.
He couldn’t cry – he was physically unable to produce tears, now. He’d realised that very early on, when the pain had driven him what felt like half-insane, when he’d refused medication because someone else must surely need it more, when two days later when he’d turned up in Gladio’s bedroom at night and begged for it – he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t force food down his throat, couldn’t think, couldn’t move for the pain – only by then there’d been none left.
He couldn’t scream – the hand around his throat made sure of that. Ignis wasn’t entirely sure he would do either, cry or scream, even if he could, but something was howling inside him, tearing at the walls of his body that was containing it. The gag was forced back into his throat, this time tied properly around the back of his head, and then the hand around his neck left, and Ignis shuddered with what air he could manage through his nose, blowing blood bubbles with each rasping breath.
Hands groped at him, a pair on his arse, and cold lube and fingers pushing against then inside him. Ignis bit down on his gag, hard, grinding his forehead into the mattress. He’d done this before – not like this, but still – he knew it’d hurt. His whole body was a knotted ball of pain, held together with a spider’s web of self-control, and he didn’t know if this would be what broke the weave of silk threads. He could barely perform normality for Noctis, Gladio and Prompto, barely keep it together in public, and now? A man sat on his upper thighs, skin-on-skin; he was hairy, and slightly damp with sweat. Ignis clenched up, even though he knew it’d be better if he didn’t, but he could hardly breathe, and when the man pushed in he couldn’t help the sound that came out, muffled through the gag. Not even a word – just a noise, like an animal.
He couldn’t do it. It hurt. He just wanted it to stop. He had so little left, so fucking little, and now they were taking even this from him.
The man thrusting into him – short, irregular motions – leant forwards and put his hands on Ignis’ shoulders, shuffling to get a better position. The other men were jeering, laughing, and Ignis didn’t need to try to drown them out; the roaring in his ears, pain thumping in to his staccato heart-beat, did it for him. He heard the sound of a shutter on a camera – the digital copy, not the true mechanical click – someone had their phone out, Ignis realised. They were taking photos of this.
Sometime after the first man had finished and the second started, grunting, leaning low over Ignis’ back so his flabby stomach brushed against him with every thrust, Ignis realised that the rope tying his hands together was coming loose. His wrists were rubbed raw and bound as tight as ever, but his swollen fingers had the space to wriggle against each other.
The third man was bony, stroked his hands down Ignis’ back, and whispered endearments into his ear as he applied more lube to counter the tacky blood.
Ignis gutted him with the knife he summoned, knots worked just loose enough to fit the hilt between his palms without breaking the delicate bones there, the blade slicing through the rope tying his wrists to the ground and then the man’s stomach with equal ease. The man screamed, and kept screaming as he disappeared from Ignis’ back, and the blood pouring onto Ignis told him that he’d severed an artery and therefore could concentrate on the rope tying his ankle, and then the first, second and fourth men.
The first man tackled Ignis and received a hole in his throat for his troubles, a long slash that Ignis felt going through the cartilage of his windpipe. He fell, hacked and gurgled on the floor, joining in with the third whose screams had turned to frightened sobs, getting weaker with every second.