I warned you all.

-Forgotten-

((Gonna split the document in half because of size.))

((Purple = Cultist))
((Gray = the captive))


The feed of the video starts off in a very dark room, with only a very minimal source of light hanging from the ceiling. The camera turns to its owner, a dark, hooded man, whose face is currently covered by a black-purple mask with two glowing red lenses. The man is currently armed from head to toe in black-purple armor; numerous surgical tools and weapons are attached to his chest-piece belt.


“Hello, StarNet. I’m sure some of you heard my warning earlier on the communicative systems, warning you about pestering in business you don’t belong. Some of you might have even heard me mention a video being broadcasted around this time..” The figure backed up and spread his arms out in a ‘look over my amazing work’ manner. “Well, this is it. You’re all about to see what we do to pests who meddle in the God’s work.” The figure turns around to the left, leaning forward as though he were looking down on someone. “Why don’t you tell us your name?”


“My name is go fuck yourself.” The man who utters this phrase is covered in some sort of disgusting fluid, strapped down to a chair. The man is a mess, stripped from the waist up, with open wounds along his abdomen.


The black-purple garbed man moves over to the camera and adjusts the lens so that it focuses mainly on the man in the chair. “Now, I don’t believe the StarNet has as much humor as you do, and if I were you, I wouldn’t be making any jokes. Why don’t you tell us your -real- name?” The cultist moved away from the camera and walked behind the chair the man was seated in, looking down at his messy, smelly face with a hidden expression.


Instead of responding vocally, the filthy man simply spits a wad of phlegm into the cultist’s face, hitting one of the red lenses with a satisfying splat. “I’m not telling you jack shit, fuck head.” The messy man snarls and braces himself for what is coming next, his muscles visibly tensing, causing the wounds on his abdomen to split open and begin to leak.


After the phlegm hit his eye, his right arm shot up to the dirty man’s face and, instead of slapping him or punching him, he opted to grab him by the chin and turn the dirty man’s face towards his own while squeezing his cheeks together, making a fishy-face. The cultist seemed otherwise unbothered by the disgusting spit splattered on his visor. “Are you sure you wouldn’t want to let ‘certain people’ know who’s about to feel the wrath of servants of the Gods? You can’t be that dense, can you?”


Turning, the dirty man faces the camera, staring into it dead on. “Kill this fucker for me, will you?” Turning back to the cultist, “They know who I am. And they know that you’re about to be dead, you sick fuck.” He lashes out, straining against his bonds.


The bonds, however, offer harsh resistance against the man’s strong limbs. Attempting to break free of the heavy-duty ropes would only leave him with an irritating case of rope-burn. “And they -ALSO- know that you abandoned them to try to take on the overseer of the Forgotten. They -ALSO- know that you completely ignored any sort of help they might have had to offer, and instead of doing the logical thing you pushed yourself right off of the mountainside and into the river of lava.” He begins chuckling, throwing the man back a bit as he released the grip of his face. “You placed this punishment on yourself. Had you come with help, you’d probably be eating dinner at your table right about now..” He shook his head, walking around the chair and plucking free a scalpel from his chest piece. He felt the point of it with his index finger as he closed in on the man’s face with his own. “I’m sure they’ll -love- to have you back in a bodybag. But I’m going to have my fun with you before I mince you up and offer your remains to them.” And just like that, the cultist’s hand jousted towards the man’s right eye with the scalpel, aiming to pluck his eye out of his head.


The dirty man’s eye is rendered from his head with a sickening, wet snap. Blood splatters onto the cultist’s hand and arm, and begins running down the dirty man’s face. No noise is heard other than the blade digging into the flesh, no grunting or screaming in pain. Instead, the dirty man takes some of the blood running down his face into his mouth and spits at the cultist again, “I’ve had worse for breakfast,” Through gritted teeth, the dirty man barely manages to snarl this out comprehensively.


The cultist laughed at the man after the blood splattered over his lenses. Obviously, this wasn’t a rare occurrence. “Then perhaps your fellow ‘crew’ members would like to see more, hm?” The cultist leaned over the man’s legs and brought the bloody scalpel down to the man’s left leg, cutting a rather large hole into the fabric of his pants and then tearing it apart with his bare hands. “Let’s see how they enjoy a one-legged Captain. Maybe you’ll have fun investing in a wooden peg-leg when I’m done with it.” Holding the scalpel like a madman holds a knife, he shoved the surgical tool into the man’s left leg.


The knife plunges into the complex circuitry of a cybernetic leg. It’s clear from the dirty man’s weak chuckle and lack of blood that what the knife plunged into, instead of a biological leg, was a very complex cybernetic designed to look as biological as possible. The leg shorts out, releasing a puff of ozone into the room, and a panel slides open revealing the complex circuitry that the fake skin was designed to hide. “You can’t even figure out that I’ve got a cheap imitation. Some torture artist you are. The drug cartels make you look like a child.” Blood staining his face, the dirty man adopts a weak, yet smug, grin.


Surprised at the existence of the bionics, the cultist stood up, shaking his head at the situation. “Oh, how shameful. I’ve besmirched the agenda of the Klhu’rak and deserve to be punished.” Although his monotone voice sounded sarcastic, apparently the man wasn’t even joking. He plunged the scalpel into his own chest, right above the left nipple, cutting a small gash that caused him to moan in pain. “Rrrrgh~.” Moving away from the chair, the madman stood up and tossed the item away like a piece of paper, leaving a small trail of blood inking down his chest-piece.. From his belt, he pulled out a syringe -- two syringes, in fact. “I’m sure that the Gods will punish me later for my insolence. One of these syringes,” he said, gesturing to the right-handed vessel, “will stop you from dying so you can listen, feel, and see all the fun I’m about to do to you.” Walking over to the bound man, the first action the Cultist took was injecting a mixture of drugs into his right shoulder.


“This better not be some of that black bull shit drug from that other video of yours.” Squirming as the syringe is placed into his skin, the dirty man again tries to pull free from his bonds, but at this point, he is weak from the loss of his eye. “When I get free from these bonds…” He trails off, drifting thoughtlessly as the injection begins to take hold of him. “I’ll kill you…” He squeezes out the sentence, but it’s more like vocal soup than an actual sentence.


“I’m -sure- you will, ‘captain,’“ he said in disgust, pulling apart his own right shoulder sleeve, revealing his pale white skin. The other syringe, instead of being loaded with the drugs that he supplied the dirty man with, was filled with the drugs of the cult that spurred the madman into a fit of ecstasy. He had no hesitation in injecting the contents of the syringe into his shoulder, and shortly after the vessel was emptied, he began to spasm about. “OooooOOOOOH YES!” He screamed in delight, falling into a fit of cackling. “YES! I CAN FEEL THEIR PLEASURE NOW- THEY DEMAND BLOOD.” While hopped up on his organization’s drug, the cultist dashed over to one of the other torture tables, pulling free a familiar chainsaw from a video long ago. Already, the cultist was beginning to rev up the blade. “ONLY THIS TIME, I’LL MAKE SURE YOU LIVE TO FEEL THE PAIN!” Screaming at the top of his lungs added an eerie echo to the surrounding room as the blade finally began spinning - and lighting up. The blades of the chainsaw appeared to be red-hot, as though heated up by some sort of internal mechanism, similar to a clothing iron.

 

The blade of the chainsaw, now glowing a white hot, was laid upon the dirty man’s right shoulder, slicing and burning into the first few layers of skin with a sickening roar. The dirty man clenches his teeth, his eyes snapped wide open. “Grrrghhh,” he’d quietly grunt in pain at first, but as the saw began to work it’s way through bone and vein, he’d work his way up to a full on blood curdling scream. The drug from earlier was designed to prevent him from going into shock or passing out, instead sending him into a lucid state of reality. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the arm falls off, hitting the ground next to him with a sickening smack. The wound left in it’s place was already cauterized by the blade, leaving little bleeding. Clearly in pain, the dirty man’s head swooned, but he was unable to find the sweet release of death or unconsciousness. Instead, his gray eyes looked far away, as if his mind had transplanted him into a different reality to escape from the stimulation overload.


With cackling delight, the black-purple garbed man threw his chainsaw against the walls of the room, causing a loud, irritating screech as the blades collided with metal and what sounded like some sort of squishy substance. The roar of the chainsaw could still be heard as the cultist screamed in the dirty man’s face. “CAN YOU FEEL IT NOW!? CAN YOU FEEL THE PAIN NOW, GRAY?!” Soon the cultist was kneeling down on the ground, grabbing the man’s bionic leg. “I’LL MAKE YOU FEEL MORE PAIN THAN THOSE PITIFUL CARTELS COULD EVER MAKE YOU FEEL! AEHEEHAAAHAA!” His grip was like a vice, clamping down on the man’s calf and beginning to shove upwards. His strength was stupendously powerful, driven by the mad drugs that he injected into himself.



Gray, still in a different world, is almost entirely unaware of the cultist trying to drive his cybernetic up into his own, normal leg. However, he seems to snap back to reality when the seal connecting his nerves to the cybernetic is broken, plunging him into great pain. As the cultist’s grip begins to squeeze down, the circuitry within the leg begins to short, electricity crackling down and around synthetic flesh. For a long while, this continues on, as Gray sits in pain, his eyes wide until finally, something happens. A smuggler’s hatch, installed into his cybernetic, contained a small derringer pistol loaded with 000 buckshot. The shorting circuitry in the leg sparked the gunpowder in both cartridges loaded into the weapon, causing the leg to disintegrate in an explosion of buck shot. Synth flesh and puffs of ozone filled the room, as the leg was destroyed from the mid shin down.


The video only continued for a millisecond after the explosion occurred. The blast from the explosion sent a piece of shrapnel into the camera’s lens, destroying the visual feed and leaving behind a fuzzy black-and-white filler for the stream. Soon after, it cut off.

 

We're not goin back to that fuckin place after seeing - and smelling - everything we did.

-Tsifira

 

.. actually. one of us is.

-Tsifira

 

.. you have to admit, it is pretty small.

-Tsifira