In Plain Sight
Gift for Corrvvo, Lycanwolf, and Jag_knight12
Written by TwistedSnakes
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He's delivered to my workshop in a body bag. I get my assistant to open it up and we lay him on the worktable. White wolf, probably an arctic. Male. I'm not sure what he's done to warrant a hit on him--most of the bodies I get are in their late 30s or 40s. The older they are, the more time they have to make enemies. He's too young to be here. But I'm not curious enough to give this a second thought.
"Clothes off."
"Cut or intact?" my assistant asks.
"Cut." I should have some clothes that'll fit the wolf if the display calls for it.
With a pair of surgical scissors, the dragon cuts off the wolf's jacket, followed by his shirt. As he moves on to the pants, I examine the wolf's upper body. He has a snow white pelt, covered by light grey highlights. Beneath the bright lights of the workshop, his fur looks almost silvery. The photos in his dossier don't do it justice. I comb my fingers through his chest fur. It's clean and soft. I can easily work with this. His chest rises as he inhales. Looks like they left it up to me to finish him off. Fair enough, I prefer it that way, anyway. Hitmen tend to mess the bodies up.
Combing his fur about, I look out for signs of damage. No cuts or bruises. There are some red lines around his wrists from where he was bound, but otherwise his body is intact. Impressive, actually. I'm guessing they spiked his drink, then kidnapped him once he was knocked out. I pry the wolf's eyelid open. Steel-blue eyes. Very nice.
"Underwear too?"
I glance at the lower half of the wolf. His underwear hugs his package snugly and I get a good idea of how his nude form would look like.
"Yeah."
I'll go for a clean aesthetic for this piece. Muscular built, white fur, au naturel. Might need a little something more to add to the piece, though. For now, I want to pose him. I've prepared a wooden column beforehand for this. It's made from an Evar Blackwood log that's almost twice my height, with a diameter as wide as my arm span. Its surface is machine-cut to form a cylindrical surface, then stained a dark walnut colour that will contrast the wolf's fur.
"Get the crane."
The dragon uses a control panel to direct an overhead crane over the wolf. It rolls along the ceiling rails, bringing with it a chain hanging from below it. In the meantime, I cuff the wolf's wrists together and I hook to the chain when it arrives.
"Get him in position."
The dragon slowly retracts the chain, lifting the unconscious wolf up by his arms. He directs the crane over to the centre of the workshop where the column is. The wolf's bare back hits the smooth surface of the wooden column with a soft thump, and he begins to stir. He's halfway up the column with his feet at my eye level. My assistant pushes a raised platform with stairs over to me, and I step up the platform to get a closer look.
Face to face with the wolf, I can see that my hunch is right. Something is missing. It feels too sterile, too clean. This piece needs a bit of colour. Colour, colour, colour. Clothes and accessories would be an easy choice, but they add too much noise. Neon colours? I do have some luminescent harnesses I could use, but I think that clashes with his fur. Bright paint splatters across his body would be bright but tacky.
Ugh. I close my eyes and clear my head. Deep breaths. I need to open my mind up to creative possibilities. This is too good a body to let go to waste. I open my eyes and focus only on the wolf. Concentrate. What feelings does his form evoke? The sculpted curves of his body, flowing down in smooth lines traced by his fur. Clean. Soothing. Peaceful. This piece needs to evoke emotions, and for that I need contrast.
Ah.
Just like that, I've got my art direction for this piece.
I jolt awake as my back slams against something hard. I try to open my eyes, but my body doesn't respond. I fight against a thick fog in my mind, trying to move my muscles. Don't panic, don't panic. What's going on? I rely on my other senses to figure out my situation. I'm hoisted off the ground by my arms. Something cold and sharp bites into my wrists.
Fighting the numbness, I force my eyes open and manage a half-lidded glimpse of the world around me. In front of me is a bird with white feathers and blue-lined highlights, standing on a raised platform so he's at my height. I realise that I'm suspended off the ground. Above me, steel cuffs bind my wrists, leaving my bare feet dangling in the air. I'm also naked. My bare fur is completely exposed, manhood and all, yet there's no way I can hide.
Have I been kidnapped? I'm in a white workshop with a high ceiling. Tables, cutting equipment, and easels are arranged neatly about the room. Shelves of art supplies and equipment line the walls. It looks like an art studio. If this is a kidnapping, why am I here?
"H-hey..." I manage a sleepy mumble through the fuzzy static in my head. "Where am I?"
The bird doesn't reply. He studies me with a concentrated look, as if trying to will something out of thin air. Did he kidnap me? Why am I hanging here?
"What's going on?" I'm scared. The bird doesn't reply. "Let me go, please. I won't say a word."
"Daggers," the bird says, but he's not talking to me. A red dragon approaches from the side with two daggers on a steel tray. Each one has a shiny blade and a jet-black handle. The bird picks up a dagger and points it towards me.
"Wait, what are you doing with that?"
The bird brings the dagger closer to me, and I reflexively press against the surface behind me. He moves the dagger around, aiming it at different angles and locations. He's looking for a place to stab me. I squirm and twist, trying to get out of the way.
"Please! Don't--"
He plunges the knife down hard into my forearm, just below the wrist. I feel a burning pain sear down my entire arm, spreading through my body. My eyes are closed, but I hear a screaming voice that I realise is mine. The bird pushes the cold blade deeper into my arm so it comes out the other side and into the curved surface behind me. He holds it there for a while before letting go.
My movements dig the edges of the knife deeper into my flesh, so I stop struggling. I open my eyes and look at the bird pleadingly. Through the watery film of my tears, I see a flash of silver before I'm hurled into a sea of agony. The second dagger lacerates the flesh of my other arm, digging into the space between the two forearm bones. I can't stop my body from trembling, causing the blade to dig deeper up my arms and into my wrist bones.
"A-ah, it hurts. Please." But the bird ignores my pleas.
"Cloth."
I watch the crimson stream of blood flow down the wolf's arms, before dabbing the excess with the rag that my assistant brings me. Too much red would compete with the grey fur markings and overpower the piece. Next on my priority would be to remove the cuffs. It's pressing into the subject's skin and flattening his fur, so I can't have that on for too long.
I ignore the wolf's incessant babbling as I unclasp the cuffs around his wrists. He exhales sharply as his body falls slightly. His head is thrown back and I can see him fighting the urge to squirm. He better not struggle. His entire body is supported by the two blades between his ulna and radius bones. Too much movement, and the daggers will tear through his wrist cartilage, slice his hand in two, and drop him to the ground.
His breaths are laboured, but he seems to be getting used to the pain. I disregard the pleading look that he struggles to give me. I step back. The look is good, but I need more blades to visually balance the piece. I spy his tail curled behind him in pain and I get a new idea.
"Dagger." My assistant passes me another matching blade and I crouch down to study the wolf's tail. I'm trying to decide where to position the dagger when the wolf realises what I'm doing. He curls his tail behind his legs and twists his hips to the side, guarding his tail with his legs. Annoying. I grab his tail and pull it back down, but he begins to kick and squirm. He's going to break his wrists like that.
"Dagger, mid-length."
I pass the dragon my short dagger, taking the longer one he hands me. The wolf eyes it wearily as I keep it by my side. With my right hand, I gently stroke his upper thigh, smoothing the white fur down.
"P-please. Don't do this." He's whimpering softly.
I aim the dagger and plunge it steadily into his thigh. As the blade pierces his skin, it slices easily through his flesh with little resistance. The wolf lets out a soft groan and his thigh trembles against the cold steel. The blade cleaves through his muscles until I feel its edge scrape against the underside of his femur. It's halfway through.
Blood seeps out the sides of the wound, but the blade plugs the gap, making sure it won't stream out of the gash and stain the fur excessively. The blade emerges on the other side until it hits the pillar. With my other fist, I hammer the handle of the dagger so it's impaled securely into the wood.
He screams as his body weight presses his bone against the blade. His free foot is pressed against the pillar, trying to ease the agony by shifting into a less painful position. I grab the blade handle and twist the dagger upwards, exposing a bit of the blade so the shiny steel shows beneath the black handle. I step back and admire my handiwork. The contrast looks good.
While the wolf is blinded by his pain, I take another dagger from my assistant. Aiming this one at the foot of the other leg, I thrust the dagger horizontally in. It enters the top of his foot, just below his shin, before stopping with a sharp, crisp crack. I'm not surprised, though. There are three cuneiform bones impeding my dagger's course. I'll need my tools for this.
"Hammer." Crude, but effective.
The dragon brings me a hammer within seconds. There's the telltale crack of breaking bones as I hammer on the handle of the blade. The wolf yells louder still, drowning out the rest of the cracking sounds as I hammer a second, third, and fourth time. After the seventh time, the blade pierces his foot and wedges itself into the wooden pillar. I put the hammer back down on the platform.
The new daggers serve two purposes. First, his legs are no longer in the way of his tail. Second, it distributes his body weight across two more points. I don't want his thrashing to ruin his hands. With his legs out of the way, I grab his tail once more. He struggles again, but his suffering has sapped his strength.
Balance, contrast, movement, emphasis. Where is the best place to put this dagger...
I decide to place it a quarter of the way down his tail. The blade goes down, this time slicing the cartilage easily before pinning it to the pillar. His tail goes limp as it nerves are cleanly severed.
I can't--I can't feel my tail. He's dabbing my blood with the cloth, but I feel nothing there. My need to breathe is competing with my frantic gasps as my lungs attempt to do both. No matter what I say or do, the bird ignores me. What's going on? Why is he doing this to me?
He takes a grey tube from the dragon, uncaps it, and thrusts it into my thigh muscle. There's a sharp sensation in my thigh as he holds it there for a few seconds. When he finally takes it away, I see a needle sticking out of the end. He has just given me an adrenaline shot. Within seconds, the feeling of pain eases slightly. My heart starts to beat faster, and the world starts to have a clearer quality to it. I catch the red dragon looking at me with a look of pity and revulsion. He has been standing behind the avian, reluctantly assisting the bird and fetching more tools to use on me.
"Please!" I call out to him. "It hurts."
The dragon is at a loss at what to do. He looks at the bird, unsure if he should intervene.
"Three swords," the bird says. The dragon hesitates, then goes off to the side where swords and daggers sit on a wooden rack. Despite their different lengths, all of them have matching black handles.
Swords? "I don't want to die, please! I'll do anything." I let out a short gasp as one of the daggers cuts deeper into my left wrists. Steeling myself, I try to ease the pressure on my arms by pushing my legs down. My thigh and foot scream in agony as I shift my body weight onto the metal embedded in my flesh. Tears fill my eyes, blurring my vision. I blink a few times to clear my eyes, only to be greeted by the sight of a sword.
"No--"
The bird thrusts the sword point-first into my abs, just above my navel. I gasp from the shock, but I don't feel anything beyond a compression in my lower torso. The cold steel is unnerving in my body, and I can only imagine it slicing through my intestines. I feel the blade come to a halt against my spine. I blink the tears out of my eyes. My shallow breaths leave me lightheaded, but I hang on to consciousness. There's a sickening crack and the sword exits out my back.
"Oh god, my spine. Please stop, please!" The bird pushes the sword deeper, so the sword is halfway in, buried into the surface behind me. "Please, I can't feel my legs. I can't feel my legs."
I'm terrified. My lower body feels like dead weight. I can't feel anything. But the bird isn't done yet. He lifts a second sword and places it on top of the first sword, next to the entry wound. I close my eyes and take a breath. As I inhale, I feel my muscles clench on the impaling metal. Oh god, oh god, oh god. Please. The second sword enters the wound, taking forever to gouge through my internals. I hold my breath, only letting go when it finally stops.
I open my eyes to see the second sword pointing out of my body, forming an angle with the first. Blood is dripping everywhere. My blood. I don't believe it. I see it, but I don't believe it. How can I believe that two swords are sticking out of my abs? I don't realise how long I've been staring at the wound before a third sword is aimed at the gash.
I'm scared, really really scared. I don't want to die. I'm not ready to die. But the bird doesn't care. The dragon doesn't care. I'm going to bleed to death and I'm going to die. I'm not ready to die. The third sword plunges into me, anyway.
I scream. I scream because there's nothing else I can do.
I step back to admire my work. The three swords create a pleasing effect with the fanned-out arrangement of the blades. I'm liking the aesthetics so far. The black handles contrast really well with the white fur and red blood. I commissioned this set of swords and daggers from a foreign artisan who specialises in blades. Each one is made of Damascus steel, yet rendered impractical for combat by the onyx crystal handles. Still, it comes together beautifully in this piece, so I have no complaints.
The adrenaline shot I gave the wolf is keeping him conscious throughout the process. I've tried posing dead or even unconscious subjects before, but they always end up looking less dynamic. There's something enthralling about a conscious subject that gets captured in the final piece. Adrenaline not only keeps the wolf from dying of shock, but also heightens his awareness of each blade that enters him. I want to capture that final look on his face.
I'm down to my two last mid-length daggers. Gotta use them wisely. I figure where I want these to go before asking for my next dagger. The wolf gets a good look at the blade and whimpers. There's fear in his eyes, coloured with tints of other emotions. What's going on through his head, I wonder? Desperation, confusion, despair, agony, hopelessness, the list goes on and on. Grappling with the reality that his life is forfeit in a matter of hours, all from a single contract killing order.
The next dagger is in my hand before I know it. I align the blade vertically against the middle of the wolf's chest, in between his pectoral muscles. With a forceful thrust, I plunge it into his skin, only to be stopped by the sternum. I'd need more force if I'm going to break the bone, but that would fracture the ribcage and deform the chest. Time to take some artistic liberties.
"Circular bone saw." I put the blood-tipped sword down on the platform and pick up the tool that my assistant brings me. At the end of a steel handle is a circular saw blade that's mounted perpendicularly. As I push the button on the handle, it whirs to life with a high-pitched hum. The wolf watches resignedly as I comb the fur away from the chest wound and press the spinning saw into it. His body vibrates as the cutter slices through the skin and into the bone. Blood spills from the gash and obscures my view, so I have to go by resistance to judge the depth of the saw.
I push the saw down, cutting deeper into the cleft made by the sword. It takes a while, but my patience is rewarded. There's no more resistance as I pierce through his sternum. From there, I slowly expand the hole by moving the saw around. The wolf's face is screwed in agony, and I guess the adrenaline is wearing off. The clock tells me I've been working on this piece for 40 minutes now. Just a bit more.
When the hole is large enough to accommodate the sword, I pass the tool back to my assistant. The sword slides in easily through the slot in his chest, and I drive it in forcefully. There's a crack as it exits the back of the ribcage, possibly leaving his spine in more fragments than before. I tug on the sword's handle, shifting it side to side to make sure it's firmly lodged in the wood. It is.
I'm down to my last dagger. I pry open the wolf's mouth with one hand and tilt his head slightly upwards. He's trembling, but he barely resists. I take the dagger from my assistant and point it down the wolf's maw. He starts to struggle but I easily overpower him. His injuries have left him too weak to resist.
I take a few seconds to savour the despair. His eyes are closed, and the fur around his face is soaked with tears. Soft whimpers escape his throat, cut short as I stab the dagger into his maw. I aim low--otherwise the blade might break his C1 or C2 cervical vertebrae and the shock would instantly shut his brain down. The blade goes too low, slicing through his tongue and out the back of his neck. Blood fills his mouth, streaming out the sides of his maw. He's still alive, though. His eyes dart around frantically, but he doesn't make a sound. I'd be surprised if he can, considering his severed spine should have left him paralysed.
That's my last one. Time to wrap this piece up.
I'm going to die. I can't breathe. I can't feel anything.
This is it for me, isn't it? There won't be anyone bursting in to rescue me. There's no saving me from this hell. I'm going to die in someone's workshop and nobody will find my body. I'm not ready to go. I'm not ready to die.
I close my eyes, but I can't stop the torrent of tears that stream down my face. I can't even die with dignity. I'm strung up and impaled for reasons I can't comprehend, and now I'm going to die a mutilated mess.
"Blood stabiliser." He takes a spray bottle from the dragon. "And go get the resin spray ready." The knife in my mouth pins my head to the surface behind me so I can't move my head to look. I can only watch him out of the corner of my eyes. He wipes up some of my spilt blood with a rag, spraying the rest with a clear liquid from the spray bottle.
The bird pries my left eye open and drips a clear liquid in. Oh god, it stings. He does the same with my other eye, holding both of them open. My vision goes fuzzy. The last thing I see is the dragon giving me a look of pity before everything goes black. My eyelids are stuck open, but I can't see. Oh god.
"Is the resin ready?"
"Yeah."
"Give him an even coating. I'm going to go wash up first, I'll check on it later."
There's the sound of footsteps followed by a loud, continuous hiss. A warm liquid sprays over my face, and I guess that the rest of my body is being covered in this too.
"I'm sorry," I hear the person in front of me whisper. Is this the dragon?
But sorry won't do anything for me. I can feel myself slipping away. I grasp at the last threads of consciousness, feeling them dissolve in my hands as I fall into the void. It's not black. It's not darkness. It's just nothing. Pure, concentrated nothingness.
Everything is fading. I feel so cold. Oh god, I feel so cold.
I'm not ready. I'm not ready.
Please.
I don't want to die.
Ending 1
Holding the steel lance of the resin device, I sweep it up and down, allowing the nozzle at its tip to spray a film resin over the wolf. I need to make sure his entire body is coated properly, fur and all, or it'll start decomposing. Once I have made sure the wolf is evenly covered, I turn off the pump and coil the tube up.
Is he still alive? He looks dead, but his ears twitched as I sprayed the resin over his face. Ugh, I feel sick. But a job is a job. I need to feed myself, even if it means working for Corvo. It's easy enough, we receive bodies and dispose of them in a...unique way. Corvo turns them into works of art, then sells them on the black market to buyers who are none the wiser about the source of the "models". I'm paid really well to buy my silence, and all I have to do is help.
Living bodies, though, are a different issue altogether. With a dead body, at least, I don't feel like I'm responsible. If the victim is still alive, though, then I feel like I'm an accomplice in a murder. Maybe after a few more victims, I'd slowly grow indifferent to it.
In the meantime, I have to bite the bullet. I get off the platform and wheel it to the side. Time for the last step. I position three heaters around the pillar, directing the heat towards the wolf. The heat will cure the resin, preserving his body forever. Tomorrow, I'll be moving his body, pillar and all, into a shipping crate and sending him off.
See, we get rid of bodies. People call a hitman on their targets, and we're just the clean-up crew. Sure, there are ways to get rid of the bodies. Chop them up and dump the parts around town, dissolve them in a vat of acid, bury them deep in the woods, and so on. But the police these days are smart. They'll discover the body eventually. Corvo takes a unique approach. He turns them into display pieces. He calls them his "works of art". Slice up the bodies, preserves them, and auctions them off.
Nobody suspects a thing. Who's going to look for a dead person in an art collection? That's why this works. And that's why I'm quitting once I get the opportunity. Because we take the bodies, desecrate them, then hide them in plain sight.
Ending 2
I stare at the delivery in morbid curiosity. I'd have thought it was painted sculpture if not for the fact that the wolf looks exactly like my secretary. He stopped showing up for work three days ago, and now he's delivered to my doorstep as a corpse.
I step closer to take a look. Various swords and knives pin Decro to the wooden pillar. Red patches of blood streak through his fur. His ears are pulled back in fear and an expression of terror is etched on his face. His entire body is encased in a layer of resin, preserving his body beneath a shiny shell. I can only hope that he was dead before they did this to him.
There's a letter that came with the delivery. I open the envelope and pull out the letter. "Dear Leo," it reads. "You know what to do." That's it. The letter ends there.
It's the mafia, I'm sure of it. I'm the CEO of Sungold Construction, and our recent expansions have been competing with their construction division. My guess is that they are trying to scare me by targeting my secretary. It's not going to work on me though. There's too much at stake: profit margins, projects, and stakeholders. I can't back out now.
As for my secretary, I can easily hire a new one. Maybe assign them a bodyguard, too. As for Decro, I don't see much else I can do for him now that he's dead. A decent funeral would be nice. Put his body to rest. But that sounds like too much trouble. There would be legal issues, questions asked, and terrible publicity for me and the company. I can't handle all that, not during this crucial period of expansion.
I could leave him in my art gallery for a few years and wait for his missing person case to grow cold. Should I keep him after that? Maybe I can sell him off once he's long forgotten. After all, nobody's going to look for him in a work of art. I'll keep him here, hiding in plain sight.
~ End ~