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rosanicusNo. 4: HALLUCINATIONS
Hypnosis | Sensory Deprivation | “You're still alive in my head.” (Billy Lockett, More)
Having readphilomytha's excellent Whumptober fic for today, I was inspired to pen a short sequel to a fic of my own involving EvS and brainwashing!
500 words, EvS & Biggles, set post-chose wrong
It was quiet and warm in the hospital room. Von Stalhein, cleaned and scrubbed within an inch of his life, sat silently between the sheets as yet another doctor examined the needle-marks on his arm. His other wrist was attached to the bedframe with a cushioned leather strap.
He thought it had been a day since he was brought here. Time slipped and slid around him in odd bursts, sunrise melting to sunset and back again. Wherever he was, his body clock was lagging behind; he woke in the middle of the night and watched Bigglesworth bleed out on the floor.
It was easy to tell which things were not real. Things which didn’t hurt, of course. Things which were too good to be true. He sat, docile, as his wounds were prodded and poked and tutted over. There was no need to move; he had failed his mission, so he must wait for his punishment.
There was no scenario in which he survived a failed attempt on the life of his targets. Hell was the quiet and warm room where he was spoken about and never to, where he was trapped within four magnolia-painted walls as his thoughts slowly - oh so slowly - dripped back into place. His skull pounded.
Erich could not describe what had been done to him. He remembered, with the sick anxiety of a nightmare, being taken to a similar room at headquarters, where a man in a lab coat had laid out his tray of syringes. There had been restraints on that bed as well, metal ones. He had thought, even as the drug burned through him, that he was being executed.
In retrospect he knew how foolish that hope had been. His employers would never be so kind. There was no world in which his refusal to turn contract killer would be met with the easy finality of death.
He remembered in sudden flashes the calm certainty which had overtaken him when his orders were read out, when he was shown the flashing lights and the trigger phrases which burrowed deep into his brain. When the restraints tightened. Ego death, perhaps, as his body kept on fighting and snarling and clawing at anything that got too close.
A voice pierced the professional dialogue going on across Erich’s body. He looked up, a reaction that would have been impossible until…
“This is real,” said Bigglesworth, edges worn down by repetition. Erich didn’t know how many times it had been. Had it really been only one day? He looked down at his arm. An open, suppurating wound at the crook. Four thin scratches crossing it and scored down the length of his forearm, pink and ragged. Pain would help. Pain would be believable. He tugged at the restraint on his other wrist, once, twice, before Bigglesworth took his hand. His throat ached. There was an odd keening noise ringing in his ears.
“This is real,” Bigglesworth insisted. He squeezed Erich’s fingers, just hard enough to sting.
Hypnosis | Sensory Deprivation | “You're still alive in my head.” (Billy Lockett, More)
Having read
philomytha's excellent Whumptober fic for today, I was inspired to pen a short sequel to a fic of my own involving EvS and brainwashing!500 words, EvS & Biggles, set post-chose wrong
It was quiet and warm in the hospital room. Von Stalhein, cleaned and scrubbed within an inch of his life, sat silently between the sheets as yet another doctor examined the needle-marks on his arm. His other wrist was attached to the bedframe with a cushioned leather strap.
He thought it had been a day since he was brought here. Time slipped and slid around him in odd bursts, sunrise melting to sunset and back again. Wherever he was, his body clock was lagging behind; he woke in the middle of the night and watched Bigglesworth bleed out on the floor.
It was easy to tell which things were not real. Things which didn’t hurt, of course. Things which were too good to be true. He sat, docile, as his wounds were prodded and poked and tutted over. There was no need to move; he had failed his mission, so he must wait for his punishment.
There was no scenario in which he survived a failed attempt on the life of his targets. Hell was the quiet and warm room where he was spoken about and never to, where he was trapped within four magnolia-painted walls as his thoughts slowly - oh so slowly - dripped back into place. His skull pounded.
Erich could not describe what had been done to him. He remembered, with the sick anxiety of a nightmare, being taken to a similar room at headquarters, where a man in a lab coat had laid out his tray of syringes. There had been restraints on that bed as well, metal ones. He had thought, even as the drug burned through him, that he was being executed.
In retrospect he knew how foolish that hope had been. His employers would never be so kind. There was no world in which his refusal to turn contract killer would be met with the easy finality of death.
He remembered in sudden flashes the calm certainty which had overtaken him when his orders were read out, when he was shown the flashing lights and the trigger phrases which burrowed deep into his brain. When the restraints tightened. Ego death, perhaps, as his body kept on fighting and snarling and clawing at anything that got too close.
A voice pierced the professional dialogue going on across Erich’s body. He looked up, a reaction that would have been impossible until…
“This is real,” said Bigglesworth, edges worn down by repetition. Erich didn’t know how many times it had been. Had it really been only one day? He looked down at his arm. An open, suppurating wound at the crook. Four thin scratches crossing it and scored down the length of his forearm, pink and ragged. Pain would help. Pain would be believable. He tugged at the restraint on his other wrist, once, twice, before Bigglesworth took his hand. His throat ached. There was an odd keening noise ringing in his ears.
“This is real,” Bigglesworth insisted. He squeezed Erich’s fingers, just hard enough to sting.
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Date: 2024-10-04 09:05 pm (UTC)Erich deciding if it doesn't hurt it must be a hallucination! His horribly accurate description of being in hospital, spoken about and never to OMG, his passive silence and his idea that he might be in hell - and then Biggles, who does talk to him, and who holds his hand just enough to hurt because of course he perceives Erich in a way that nobody else does. This is absolutely the gorgeous painful comfort I needed at the end of 'chose wrong' <333
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Date: 2024-10-12 04:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-10-05 12:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-10-12 04:16 pm (UTC)