Scene from a rp with @turn-the-tables-on-them , featuring my boi Wes from The Riot Kings. For context, it's set in a futuristic high fantasy au and this is basically just me being self-indulgent lol.
cw: beatings, language, noncon drugging
It was obvious Wes wasn't gonna get much sleep during his stay here.
Winter was in full throttle, and the stone cell he'd been thrown into didn't offer much protection from the chill. All he could do was curl in on himself, shivering and cursing his situation.
He'd stolen from royalty, killed guards, ambushed rich assholes, and gotten away scott-free, but somehow couldn't walk away from a single act of petty theft.
Wasn't his fault lord whats-his-face couldn't hold on to his wallet. Wasn't his fault the guy's kid was sharper than he looked and prone to snitching. And it certainly wasn't his fault that such a small offense could get you locked away to freeze to death.
Wes clenched his jaw to try and keep his teeth from chattering. He guessed he was still sorta lucky though. At least no one here seemed to recognize him as one of the rebels terrorizing the upper class.
Hopefully it stays that way, he thought as he finally sank into sleep.
When he woke, it was late in the day. He was aware of being hungry, of a dryness in his throat, but he couldn't do shit about it except hope someone came by soon. Night fell, and he tried to sleep. Not like there was anything else to do, and he had to conserve energy if they weren't going to fucking feed him.
It was well past morning the next day when he heard someone outside his cell. Fucking finally, he thought, but when the door swung open it wasn't food on the other side. It was a pair of armed guards. He cursed under his breath as they seized him by the arms, cuffed his hands behind his back, and began to march him down the stairs.
He decided not to struggle, despite really really wanting to. If he were about to be released, he wasn't gonna make trouble, and even if he weren't, the last thing he wanted was to be thrown down the fucking stairs.
They brought him to what he assumed was their main base, leading him down a corridor and into a small room. Inside was a single metal table and chair.
Fuck.
The guards pushed him into the seat, securing his ankles with a pair of handcuffs that had been bolted to the floor. As they left, an older man in an officer uniform stepped inside.
Fuck.
A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck as the man moved to stand across from him. His name tape identified him as 'Nault'.
"I'm sure you already know why you're in here, boy," he said. "It'd be in your best interests to make this easy for me. We'll start with something simple." He leaned in. "What's your name?"
Wes didn't answer, keeping his eyes glued on the table in front of him. It was probably just a ploy to get him to crack, and he wasn't falling for it.
Beside him, Nault shrugged. "Suit yourself. But you're only making this harder on yourself, Wes."
The surprise must've shown on his face, and the other man chuckled. "Like I said, that was something simple. We already know who you are. Got profiles on dozens of you rebel delinquents." Nault moved to stand behind him. "Never would've known you boys were on this side of the realm if you hadn't been arrested. How's that feel?"
Shitty. Absolutely shitty. Not only did they know who he was, they knew the rebels were on the move, and it was his fault.
Whatever. They would've found out sooner or later. All he could do now was not let anything else slip.
He swallowed nervously. No matter how hard that might be.
"Still not talking? Alright, but at least answer this: what's your band doing this far North?"
Silence was a good strategy, right? If he didn't talk, they couldn't learn anything from--
The blow caught him off guard, Nault's hand seizing him by the hair and slamming his face into the table. Pain exploded in his skull, making his eyes water.
"Fuck!"
"Not the answer I hoped for, but I suppose it's something. Now about the rebel movements--"
"None of your fucking business," Wes snapped, the pain overshadowing his reason.
"That so?" Nault replied, voice level. "Maybe you're right, but we'd like to make it our business. Can't have rebels terrorizing the kingdom, after all. So I'll ask nicely one more time. What are you doing in the North?"
That was nicely? Wes spat a glob of blood onto the table. "Eat shit."
Nault sighed. "Fine. I see you've made your choice."
He left the room, and before long, the pair of guards who'd brought him here reappeared.
For all of a second, Wes was able to entertain the idea that he was done here, and they were taking him back to the cell. That happy thought died as soon as they drew their batons and closed the distance on him.
Blows rained down hard and fast. He couldn't move away, couldn't even raise his hands to try and shield his face. Best he could manage was to tuck his chin into his chest and hope they got this over with.
It wasn't long before he was thrown from the chair, hitting the ground hard enough that it knocked the wind out of him, the first boot to the gut compounding the feeling. Wes choked on the air, unable to even find the breath to cuss them out as the blows kept coming, boots colliding with his stomach, his ribs, his back. One kick caught him in the jaw, dazing him, but they didn't stop. His will to stay awake was rapidly failing, and after a few more well-placed kicks, he blacked out.
He came to back in the tower, hurting like hell. His head was pounding, and every little shift of movement sent a wave of pain through his body.
When the guards returned, he couldn't even find the energy to try and get away, but this time all they did was throw him a water bottle. It wasn't until he'd chugged the entire thing that he noticed the bitter aftertaste.
Fucking drugging him now? Didn't they have some kind of code?
Apparently not, he thought as the room started to spin around him, a weird haze clouding every thought. A few minutes later, the door opened again, and the guards dragged him back to the room.
And so the cycle continued. The guards brought drugged water, or shitty food, or escorted him to the next interrogation.
If you could even call them that. He had only a vague idea of what happened in the room, forgetting each question almost as soon as it was asked. The only thing he knew for sure was that they always hurt him.
Wes wasn't sure if he'd given anything up at this point. Whatever drug they had him on made it hard to think, but he couldn't just start refusing the water. He doubted they'd give him anything else, and he was still determined to survive, even if every day brought on some new hell.
He had no idea how long he'd been there. Everything blurred together, and it wasn't like he was scratching fucking tally marks into the wall of his cell. Maybe he should, just for a single bit of clarity. But in the rare moments he was left to rest, he couldn't find it in him to get up off the floor.
Everything hurt. He was almost certain he had a few broken ribs with how painful it was to breathe, and a few of his joints weren't feeling too hot either. To say nothing of the bruises, the burns, the cuts... Fuck. They liked getting creative, and he was so fucking excited to see what tomorrow would bring.
He'd probably die here. They didn't seem to care how much they hurt him. All they wanted were answers, and whether he gave them up or not, it was only a matter of time before his body gave out.
With that cheery thought in the forefront of his mind, Wes did the only thing he could:
Curl up against the chill and try to sleep.
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(in-play he got rescued right after this by @turn-the-tables-on-them 's OC Aliyah so no worries lol)
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