Adagio for Strings
#5 of Und Des Nachts: Danny the Killer
Disclaimer: This story contains awful things happening to a genuinely good person, and if that floats your boat, then go ahead. Read it. See if I care, huh? But stay far away from me.
Robbie, Dallas and Boston all belong to FearandFur, the guy who started this whole mess. If you don't know who they are, well... I suggest paying him a visit. He's on yiffstar.com.
If you don't like this sort of stuff, or aren't over 18, then stay away, or go read something nice. We're coming to the midway point of this wild ride. Don't worry. It'll be over soon.
"Mike!" She screamed. "Michael! Get up! Michael! Please! If you don't get up, you are going to die! Why won't you listen to me? MICHAEL."
Goddamn, his head hurt so bad. Some voice... it sounded like his sister... was bouncing around between his ears, refusing to give him a moment to think. Christ, woman! He felt like he was going to die, and even then she wouldn't shut up. What happened last night?
"Ohh..."
It was dark in here, and really damp, too. He could feel the water forming up on his whiskers, and his jacket was probably soaked, too. At least he still had his jacket. Cautiously, he widened his vision, sending a few bolts of pain right into his brain. Jesus! Was this hell? It felt like there was an iron pipe in his noggin. FUCK whatever he was drinking last night. This'd be the last time he'd let Jake trick him into chugging from a blank-label bottle. Dammit. Fucking rats.
Hey, where was this, anyway? It didn't smell like his house. It smelled kinda... rotten. Kinda funky. Kyle's place, maybe? Naaah, there weren't clothes piled everywhere. Unless his ball and chain had decided to perk up the place. That broad always did nag. Maybe she was givin' Kyle the blue-ball treatment. That'd explain that.
And shit! His arm hurt too. Well, his shoulder hurt anyway. The rest of his arm was all dead and numb. Maybe he'd try and rub it... CHRIST! Ow! Shit! Man, that stung! Did he break his shoulder on something? Good fucking lord! Ahhh...
Michael shook his head, straining his eyes in the darkness. His arm had been raised above his head, and something metal had been fastened to his wrist. Shit! No, he was hanging! He was just barely above sitting on his knees, they were only a few inches off the ground, and his arm was aching like crazy! Holy living SHIT!
The panther wearily got to his feet. He could feel a popping noise, and his shoulder ripped into him, hard enough to make him hiss with pain.
"Oh, shit shit shit..." He mumbled to himself, rubbing his sore-ass triceps and tugging on the chain. It had to be brand new, from the way it kinda glinted in the darkness. No getting out of that... What else was there? His paw groped around for something he could use. Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. Ah! Wood! There was a small table, and...
A little square box. Michal clutched it like it was life itself. His paws knew what it was immediately. Goddamn, his head hurt. He shook the box once, and the sound it made echoed throughout the room.
Matches. Fucking matches! He carefully drew one out and struck once against the box. Twice! Three times!
"Gah! Jeeze!" The panther shrank back. He could literally feel his pupils constricting, screwing up his eyes and making him snarl with frustration. How long had he been in the dark like this? Plus, his head was murdering him. And his arm ached. If any of his damnable friends were responsible for this wake up, he was gonna throttle their goddamn chicken-shit throats!
Where was he again? It took three matches to tell. The first time, he was still blinded, trying to let the match burn until his fingers hurt. The second time, he tried to get a look around through squinted eyes. He found the table, but not much else.
And the third time... There it was. A tiny little candle on the desk. It was way on the other end of the table, and even though it was small and kinda round, the other end was still a bit of a stretch. His shoulder really resented being pulled like that, but what the hell, right? It meant light. Light was a good thing. He'd trade some pain for light.
White wax dripped onto his midnight black fur as he looked around. Cement walls, cement floor... his arm was actually manacled. A low growl rose in Michael's throat. He didn't like the idea of where this was going at all. This meant some ugly business for the panther.
His feline ears cocked. There was a moan in the darkness. It was kind of lonely, and pained too. Was there someone else down here with him? Jesus, his head was hurting! He made himself ignore it.
"Hey." Michael whispered to the body in the darkness. Cautiously, he crept toward the voice, trying not to strain his arm too far. It still hurt like a sum'bitch. "Someone out there, huh?"
"Unnn...." Came the reply. Michael could see him now. It was a male, somewhere in his early twenties perhaps. It was hard to judge the species, because he couldn't see a face or a tail, but the body type looked like... small mammal. A squirrel maybe? No, larger than that. Not quite an otter... It was hard to tell. The kid was wearing a hoodie, and it was down and over his eyes, the shadows hiding what the cloth would not. It didn't even have any holes for his ears. Michael couldn't see hide nor hair of this kid.
Of course, any of that paled in comparison to the fact that the bastard was chained to the wall, shivering in what was clearly pain and fright. The dim light threw a long shadow behind him. It looked like a spider that was curling up to die, clutching itself and shaking like that.
"Hey." Michael called out again. The sound echoed against the cement. It was making his head hurt. "C'mon guy. Answer me. Pull it together."
The figure froze. Even his shadow stopped shivering. The suddenness made the panther a little uneasy. The prisoner's head turned a little bit, and whoever it was tried to get to his feet. But the chains wouldn't let him. He could only kneel, it seemed. Michael felt a stab of pity, but he kept it to himself. Information first, emotions later.
"Are you ok, huh?"
"Uh..." came the reply. His voice was hesitant, nervous. "N-no. I think I'm gonna be sick." Slowly the head rocked back, and a sharp pointed muzzle looked out from the shadow with wide, wild green eyes rimmed with a mask of raven-black fur. A raccoon, then? Without meaning to, the panther flinched.
"Where are we?" Michael managed to say evenly, trying to keep the candle from flickering. The poor kid was starting to look more and more beat to hell. His feline ears could hear the ragged, wheezing breaths forced out of his throat by tired lungs. It sounded like a broken rib, possibly. Maybe something worse. Michael had heard that noise before.
"I don't know, man..." he sounded like he was on the verge of tears. "I hate this fucking place. I wanna go home." The raccoon's body shivered as his voice cracked. "I wanna go home." He kept mouthing it over and over to himself, his young eyes flicking around aimlessly, as if they weren't really seeing anything. In the flicker of the candle, Michael could see tears forming.
"Who did this to you? Who put me here?" The panther's tone was warm, but commanding. He didn't have time for fear- he'd save this kid when he could get his arm free. But before that, he needed to know who he was dealing with and why he was chained up like this. Sometimes information would keep you alive when your claws wouldn't. Michael's dad told him that. Fond memories.
"Eeh... Eeee...." The raccoon could barely spit the words out, as if he was afraid of the guy showing up at the very mention of his name. "Ian. He says his name is Ian. The Wolf. The one all the papers are talking about. The killer."
The raccoon jerked violently against his chains, looking up at Michael with bloodshot eyes. "I don't wanna die! Is that so wrong?" He sobbed. Michael jerked back, clamping his paws over his ears. "He said he was gonna cut off parts of me, just one at a time... He said he's gonna make me watch." The raccoon sniffled a little bit, his nervous energy spent. Michael listened to the coon's soft voice whimper in the darkness.
The feline's paws clenched. He'd read about this guy... He'd gone uncaught for years, always eating his victims. Sometimes, he'd saw parts of them off, cut off their ears, tear out their eyes, but always he'd eat the throats. The Wolf. The Vermont Pack, outside of the state. Of course, they had no idea whether it was a wolf or not, and usually the bodies had decayed so badly by the time they found them, usually put in a bag and thrown into a river... A few theorists believed it was actually a cult.
Their victims were random, but not one of them had any evidence on what was left of their bodies. They were simply... empty. And they were mutilated, too. Torn up by fangs, some fucked so hard they were ripped wide open, cubs, women, cops, businessmen, hoboes... Michael tried not to think about it. It was going to make him sick, and he couldn't spare the energy.
Shit, his head was going to kill him. He needed peace. He needed silence. C'mon. He just had to focus... So The Wolf called himself Ian, huh? Maybe he could learn a little more--
"Christ!" The raccoon yelped, trying to stand again and failing, slamming back down to the cement with a - plop - noise. "Do you hear that?? It's him!"
Michael's eyes shot up toward a set of stairs. In the darkness, he hadn't even noticed they were there, but now the room was flooded with light. There, at the top of the stairs, he stood like a statue of some dark god. The Wolf. The murderer; the ripper of throats. The cub killer, the butcher.
"Ian." Michael whispered venomously. It was like looking into an eclipse. Bright white light filled the frame of the doorway, where the specter of that fucking psycho stood. His frame was broad and his ears were cocked and pointed. His sick breathing was hard and heavy, and for what seemed like an eternity, he stood there, looking down at... his prey. His meat. It made Michael's insides crawl.
The figure stepped down, pulling a chord on the wall. A lone lightbulb on the end of a long chord sprang to life behind Michael, and his long shadow was cast right over the raccoon, who was whimpering and whispering nonsense now, the chains keeping him from crawling away from the...
Aha. It was a wolf. Grey fur, and not one scrap of clothing to cover him save an iron cross, slung around his neck on an iron chain. The way he moved was strange to watch. It was kind of a jarring, two-legged walk. Unnatural, but graceful, too. Truly like a predator.
The raccoon was screaming now, clawing at the cement in a vain attempt to stay away from the hulking beast. Something glinted in the dim light, clutched tightly between his fingers, and The Wolf... Ian knelt. There were a few clicks, and the raccoon scampered free.
He didn't get more than three feet before Ian was on him, crushing his head against the cement. "No no, Miles!" He growled, his voice low and deep, dripping with self-induced pleasure. It was hard to understand him- his speech was just like his movement. Half animal. "You're not done. You're lucky I just took your tail last time."
The raccoon let out a pathetic whine, ending in a pathetic sob. Michael's head was splitting open, and it was only then that he realized that he was growling, trying to rip his arm free from its lone restraint. Stupid fucking goddamn chain! Just one manacle! Just one paw! He was so goddamn close!
"Quit whimpering, you little bitch. Do you want me to eat your precious paws, first? I know how you forest rats love your fucking paws. I'll chew ‘em off right fucking here. Is that what you want? Is it?!"
Ian yanked the raccoons head back, exposing his screaming throat. "Answer me, cunt! I could eat your neck right here. Fucking faggot raccoons like you are worth less than nothing! Tell me if you wanna die, runt!"
"N-NO!" The raccoon shrieked, fighting to squirm away to absolutely no avail. "No no no! NO!"
His squirming form was silenced by The Wolf, and there was a harsh gurgling noise as Ian clenched his paw around the raccoon's neck, literally dragging him up the stairs by his throat.
The sounds poor Miles made as his windpipe was crushed echoed around the empty room as Michael watched him limply flop around, prying at the wolf's inscrutable claws. His paw was immovable. His will was absolute. He would fuck Miles as he pleased.
Michael shrunk back against the wall; his heart was pounding in his chest.
"I'll bring him back." The Wolf cooed from the top of the stairs, his voice changing from rough and animalistic to sultry in an instant. "... Most of him. You and he have some time left together. I wouldn't spend it cuddling."
The door closed, and the sobs of poor Miles went unheard in the basement.
"Holy moley! Dude, you gotta try this!" Ian said, his tail wagging in utter delight.
"What? Beef jerky? For breakfast? I don't think so, dude."
"C'mon! They made it with like, pinapple and stuff. It tastes great, and the meat is really tender-"
"Man, just let me eat my cereal, ok? I'll try it later."
"C'moooooon. You know you want a little piece."
"Are you kidding? This is Peanut Butter Crunch we're talking about here. You'll ruin the..." Danny searched for the word. "Bouquet."
Ian gave his friend a stern look. "A bouquet is for wine. It's all the aromas that sift through your nose when you sniff the cork."
"I know, man. That was the joke."
"... So does that mean you're not gonna try any?"
It was nine o' clock in the morning, and Danny clearly didn't feel like trying any beef jerky. Hadn't he made that clear already? Damn! A man couldn't even enjoy some peanut butter crunch without his best friend butting in, making him try all different kinds of weird-ass breakfast stuff. Jerky was a snack anyway.
Ian was kind of a weird guy like that. He wasn't really all that in to anything other than meat, but he'd eat a pizza if Danny ordered (and paid). And he had this weird habit of not eating with silverware or utensils. ‘My paws are fine', he'd always say. His manners were... lax. Plus, he still liked the Saturday morning cartoons, instead of the news, which drove the weasel nuts.
It was on this point, Danny felt, the law should be lay down every morning.
"So does it feel any different being twenty?" Ian sighed, putting his muzzle on his paw and staring at the TV with a bored expression on his face.
"Not really." The weasel answered, flipping through the channels. Aha, fifty-six- that's where the good news was. "It's kind of like being nineteen. I still can't legally drink."
"Not that you would."
"Yeah, but still..." Danny grinned, and Ian's tail wagged as the anchor woman (or as Danny called her, the Anchor-lass) came on for the morning news. Ellen McClain.
She was a busty young vixen (red fur and gorgeous sapphire blue eyes), and though Danny had only seen her top half, he could only assume her legs were as dynamite as the rest of her lithe and graceful body.
"I'm telling you, man, I would fuck her so hard."
"Hah! Really? Really Danny? You say that every time we watch the news."
"Well, you would too, right? Look at those eyes man! I heard she can play piano, too. I'd love to hear it..."
"I heard she can play the skin flute..." Ian gave his friend a toothy grin, and yelped softly when the weasel flicked him in the nose.
"Shut up dude. That's just not classy."
"Ahahahaha!"
Ever since Danny and he had picked up this duplex, life had been rolling pretty smoothly. Granted, the real-estate people had looked at them funny when they said they wanted to take a loan out on a house together, but Danny had assured them that nothing was going on, and Danny was usually pretty persuasive.
In fact, he'd persuaded his way into a few college music lessons recently. It was mostly theory, but as much as Ian wondered WHY anyone would POSSIBLY want to go back to school after getting out, his weasel friend had been able to settle all of his doubts last week by writing a beautiful hymn, of all things. An... Ave Maria, he had called it. Some song celebrating the virgin who gave birth to Christ.
Danny had even played it in public on the organ after church one Sunday. Ian still remembered sitting in the pew and thinking how stupid it was for a wolf like him to be in a church when the first chord washed over his ears. It literally brought the wolf, the few congregation members who had stayed after, and even the minister to tears.
A lot of people wondered how the two of them made enough money to support an entire house. After all, Danny wasn't paid very handsomely for his job as a pianist at Von Maur's, and Ian's job as a bouncer really didn't rake in the cash either. All said, they should have been in a deep, deep debt. But it really wasn't hard to pay the bills when you were paying them with-
"Oh, jeeze. Have you heard about this one, Ian?"
"What?" He shook his head. "Sorry, I was kind of spacing off."
Danny smiled toothily. "That's the Ian I know and love. But seriously, they're talking about this guy in Texas, who's been causing all the trouble. The serial killer."
Ian's ears perked. "Oh, shit! Yeah, that Werewolf guy."
"That's right. The Werewolf of West Texas."
"The Werewolf of West Texas..." Ian's voice kinda trailed off.
"Makes you gald we don't live in Texas, huh?"
"Oh, no fuckin' kidding. That guy scares the shit out of me." Ian's ears flattened, and he ran a paw over his t-shirt, touching his cross.
"Why are you worried?" Danny took a swig of his milk and gave Ian a wicked grin. "They say he only goes after cubs."
Ian's ears flattened. "How have they not caught him yet?"
"Beats me."
There was a moment of silence, and the two sat still, listening to the pretty vixen talk about the recent rise in murder rates, and about police investigations into several -serial murder' cases. It was some pretty heavy stuff. Danny didn't really want to hear any more of it.
"Well, were we gonna buy some rubber tubing today?"
"I think so. Give me a second to get all ready, and then we'll go."
Ian nodded and picked up the remote. The last couple words of the lovely Anchor-lass rang in his lupine ears.
"... A local hero and celebrated marine, most known for his v-"
Miles wheezed as he hit the floor, deflating like a balloon as the wind was knocked from his lungs.
"Keep him company down there. Can't you see he's lonely?" Ian laughed and slammed the door, leaving the bloody and battered raccoon alone with Michael, who could scarcely believe his tortured frame could still move. He watched in silence as Miles pushed himself to his knees, holding himself and heaving great gulps of air in the darkness.
"Are you... gonna be ok?" The panther asked tentatively. His headache had subsided hours ago, but his arm still hurt like all hell. The muscles and tendons had stretched out from his hanging there for God-knows-how-long, and he was beginning to wonder if his rotator cuff hadn't been torn or something..
"I'm never going to be ok again." Came the raccoon's flat reply. It was dead, completely. There was no emotion.
"I'm sorry..." Michael spoke softly.
"Don't worry. He let me keep my paws." Miles looked up at the panther with weak eyes that shone dimly in the light. "It hurt a lot, but he let me keep my paws."
"What did..." The panther's voice trailed off. He didn't want to ask this question, but he needed the answers. Just in case it might let him escape. Maybe the raccoon would tell him enough info to spring him, when the time came? God willing, he'd have the poor guy in a hospital before that monster could touch him again... "What did he do to you?"
Miles was silent for a long time, but the panther waited patiently. His eyes adjusted to the dim light eventually- the candle had long ago burnt through. The coon's hoodie was a dark shade of brown. It was dirty and ripped, and there were several splotches of what the panther could only assume was sperm. Miles's jeans, however... they were another story. They were slashed in several places, and absolutely covered in dried blood.
"The first day I was here, he raped me. I woke up in this room and there he was, standing there and rubbing his cock with that fucking smirk plastered all over his muzzle. He brought me upstairs, and told me to be quiet, but, well..."
His voice trailed off. Michael watched the coon shrink in on himself. "I wasn't. He told me to lift my tail. I didn't." The panther could swear he saw Miles grinning through the fabric of his hood. Michael shook his head. Hallucinations.
"I wouldn't offer him my ass, so he ripped my tail off. He told me I was a worthless shit-hole coon and that I deserved to die, and he fucked me until I passed out. I lost track of time after that, but ah... well... the last time he took me up there, he stripped me naked..."
"Jesus." Michael whispered.
"Funny you should bring him up..." Miles spat sarcastically before clutching his stomach and keeling over. The ripe scent of vomit filled the room as Miles emptied his guts all over the. "Urgh..." he grunted, wiping off his muzzle with the sleeve of his hoodie. "He just cut me a lot. Peeled pieces of my skin off. I don't think he was very interested in me. He kept talking about you."
Michael bore his teeth, his jaw was clenched in absolute fury. That monster was going to bleed. If anyone could put The Wolf down, it was Michael fucking Williams. "Well... if he brings me up there, I promise you I'll fuck him up good for what he did to you, and then I'm gonna come back down here and get you, ok? You'll be ok... Your name is Miles, right?"
"What?" Miles said, looking back at the panther. "Do I know you?"
"I heard him say your name when he took you up the stairs. I'm gonna get us out of this, I swear to God in Heaven. I'm gonna break him in half for you, and everyone else he's ever hurt. Monsters like that don't deserve to live."
Miles shuddered violently, and for a second, the panther thought he was going to throw up again. Instead, the coon just whispered: "Who are you?"
"I'm Michael."
The raccoon's gaze shot open wide, and he snapped his head around to look at the panther. "From the paper? That Michael!?"
"That Michael" Michael whispered.
"Well," said Danny, looking at his friend's abysmal excuse for a truck. "We're walking, man."
"Shit! Damn you, you shitty van! God fucking damn you!" Ian slammed his fist down on the hood, covering his ears with his other paw. "Fuck, we're not even anywhere near a main road. Why would there be screws out here, huh? We're practically in the forest itself."
"Maybe they fell outta someone's tool kit?" The weasel tapped his chin, thoughtfully. "I dunno. Either way, we're out of tires. I don't suppose you've got triple A?"
It was a sarcastic question. Both of them knew better than to have their names on too many pieces of paper.
"I guess we really are hoofing it, huh? Goddamn my luck." Ian sighed and shook his head.
"Goddamn your luck." Danny echoed as they started walking. "I was gonna pick up some rubber tubing for tomorrow, but ah... I think we need to start saving for a better truck. Or at least better tires. The last thing we need is someone snooping around out here to see if anyone lost their truck. You know what I mean?"
"Yeah..." Ian scratched the back of his head with a blunt claw, and they started walking.
The road was quiet that day. The sun was hanging low, riding the edge between afternoon and sunset and blazing like hell itself. It reminded Danny of the cat they were leaving back at "The Farm" as he called it. A big black cat, with sharp teeth and a will to live.
Ian was busy reading his friend's thoughts. "Are you worried about him?"
"No."
"He hasn't even shown fear yet. You drugged him up and everything. You even let him dangle for hours in the darkness."
"I know. I don't want to talk about it."
"And still. Not one whimper. I think this might be the first person you-"
"Ian." Danny's voice had changed. The wolf stopped walking immediately. "I can touch anyone. Anyone I please, Ian. He looks tough, but he's showing emotion. That's all I need- it doesn't have to be fear. I can kill him with any feeling. Even love, if I have to. I can crush him Ian. Just like anyone else."
The weasel turned and looked at his friend with ice in his gaze. "Never forget that, Ian. Ever."
"... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound like I doubted you."
"... I know." Danny's voice softened a little. "Don't worry. You know what Michelangelo said, don't you? "The statues I carve were always there. I just have to remove the excess stone.' Something to that effect?"
"Yeah, I've heard that quote before."
"It's like that. When we're done, you'll see." Danny gave a weak smile, and Ian wagged his tail, just a little. "I think he's scared of you, though. You shoulda seen the look on his face when-"
Danny never got to finish that sentence, because Ian had to pull him out of the way of a white GMC van. The white paint and steel frame missed the weasel's nose by inches, and the wind from it blew Ian's fur back.
"Goddamn!" The wolf shouted as the van screeched to a halt, twenty feet away from where his friend almost lost a footpaw. "Are you alright, man? Christ Jesus! You almost ate it there!" Ian was understandably pissed about his best friend almost being run over, but his ears unflattened a little when he saw the van stop, coasting a little bit. The smiling face of a golden retriever poked itself out of the driver's seat window, and Ian wondered for a second if whoever was in the truck wasn't incredibly high.
Robbie Goldpaw liked hitchhikers. In terms of prey, there was nothing quite as easy to get at. After all, they wanted to get into his van! No strings attached! You could pick them up right in the middle of the day, too. No tricks, no drugs, no lies... no scene. Sometimes he didn't even have to talk, and they were just grateful enough to get a ride. He smiled to himself as he looked at everything in his van, making sure everything was in order... Boston would be proud of him. Twenty-two years old, and still organized down to his toes.
The golden retriever looked out the window an into the side mirror, checking on his quarry. There were two of them, and that was bad luck. One of them was a large wolf, and tazers didn't work on big angry guys. The other was a smaller guy, who looked... well, to be truthful, he looked terrible. Robbie couldn't even tell what he was, but it really didn't matter to him at the moment. He had managed to go just long enough without practicing his little ‘talent', and in truth he was itching to get back to it. He didn't mind if there were two of them. All it meant was that he would have to take his time when the big moment came. As they began to walk toward his van, Robbie contemplated his many options.
The smaller guy would take a tazer and go down, but he would have to drug the big one. He hoped the wolf didn't object to taking a few pills to 'relax'. It wasn't as if he would notice until it was too late, and who would object to a little loosening up, huh? But he would have to be quick with the tazer if the wolf got too goofy too fast. Ahh... That was the price you paid when dealing with two people at once. Your timing had to be perfect.
Well, Robbie had perfect timing.
He took one last, lingering puff on his joint. He could see the pair of pedestrians talking to themselves and approaching the van, looking a little worse-for-wear and pissed. He felt the little nervous tingle he always got when he did things like this. It was too late. Robbie gripped the door handle with one paw.
"Jesus, I almost ran you guys over! I'm really sorry, you were almost friggin' road... kill..."
The canine's voice trailed off. Robbie Goldpaw was a killer, trained by a killer to be a killer. He knew how to lie, he knew how to kidnap, and he knew how to torture. Robbie Goldpaw had, for the better part of his life, been a ruthless machine, the perfect pupil of Daniel Travis, Boston, his collie friend and teacher. And he knew a screwed up individual when he saw them. The pup put on his best, happiest, most carefree grin of all. Fellow crazies. It really brought him back to his childhood, before he struck out alone.
Daniel Travis (Boston) and his partner Dallas took Robbie in at the age when, by all accounts, he should have been murdered by them. At the time, the little golden retriever puppy was nothing more than a broken child: torturing and impaling mice on metal rods for fun while his parents squandered the ludicrous fortune they school had given them to keep the facts of their son's rape confidential. He was the most imaginative, dangerous, and strong-stomached puppy the collie had ever seen, and at the age of 22, he was still all of these things. Except now he had practice under his belt.
And he knew how to deal with a crazy hitchhiker or two.
"Sorry, just had to catch my breath there." He said a bit awkwardly, fumbling with his paws his pockets. The smaller guy was looking at him with wide, cautious eyes. Wow! He really looked like hell. Beat up and bloody clothes, dirt all over his fur. He was even missing a tail- the wolf had to hold onto his shoulders to keep him from slumping over. What had this guy been doing? Haha... Didn't matter.
"Anyway, you guys look like you could use a lift. Hop in!"
"Yeah, I guess we could." The wolf nodded, patting his friend on the shoulder. "Wow, you came in the nick of time, you know? I thought we were fucked. Just... watch where you're driving, huh? You almost ran over Danny, here."
"Sorry, man. I'll watch out next time, huh?"
"Ian..." Danny whispered under his breath, out of the corner of his muzzle. "If we get in that van, we are going to die."
"What makes you say that?" Ian said indignantly.
The inside of the van was just about the comfiest thing Ian had ever seen. As tired as he was from the day's work, it really psyched him up to be in the back of such a cool place. Danny was even going to let him ride in back.
"Oh sweet, you have a couch back here? Man, I'm jealous. I would lounge around all day with a van like this."
Robbie turned to him, giving him a reserved but undeniably sly little grin. "You really like it?" He wasn't used to this kind of casual talk, but he couldn't make his move too soon. The littler guy was suspicious. It struck the pup as the van started up and the engine roared: for once, the people sitting in it weren't Boston and Dal, or unconscious and tied up. This was the first time he'd actually had someone in his van who he wasn't actively... working on.
The tazer sat under his seat, unused. Something was keeping his golden paw from reaching for it. He knew he could probably cruise control at ten miles an hour, but the wolf in the back seemed pretty... sharp. Actually, the wolf in the back seemed really sharp. Despite how puppy-like he was acting.
"It kinda smells nice in here, too, you know? It smells kinda like home. Doesn't it Danny?"
"Uh... Yeah, man. Just like home." Danny scratched the back of his neck, running a paw over his black-tipped ears. "I'm Danny, by the way. I guess you could've guessed that. This is Ian."
"I'm Robbie."
"Robbie, huh?" Ian piped up, sitting back up on the couch. "You're not from around here, are you?"
The dog shook his head. "I live here. But I grew up in Texas."
"I see how it is. That explains the accent, huh? We were just talking about Texas today, you know? Shit, who was it, Danny?"
'Danny' said nothing.
"Oh. Uh... damn. The Werewolf of West Texas."
Robbie felt his paws tense up on the wheel, but he didn't show dare show one shred of recognition. That was the media's name for a dear friend of his...
"So Texas has really been through a lot this past decade or so, huh? No wonder you moved." Ian rocked forward in the couch. What genius thought of putting a couch in a van? They should be given a medal. Still though, this place was kind of... creepy, too. In a familiar way. There was a scent he was picking up that his mind refused to place right away.
"Yeah... I guess it kinda has, huh?"
The three were quiet for a little bit, listening to the sound of four tires on asphalt and the distant sound of an engine running. Robbie was silently wondering when someone was going to say something about Boston being a sicko.
Ian was silently wondering why Robbie was so quiet, and why this van felt so bizarrely familiar.
'Danny' was busy looking right into Robbie's eyes, and silently wondering when the dog was going to reach for that tazer underneath his seat. Looking at those eyes, 'Danny' could swear this golden dog looked exactly like Ian when he was over the edge, fully feral, hell bent on eating the flesh from a screaming doe's belly. Except Robbie's eyes stayed like that, glistening with a dark blankness. Some weird animal quality gleamed behind those pupils.
"Well, well... what's this?" Ian crooned. Danny watched as Robbie's eyes opened wide for a brief second the dog's head whipping around to see what Ian had.
"Jesus, look at all this stuff." The wolf was grinning toothily, a pair of pliers clutched proudly in his grey paw. "He's got so much crap in here, but it's all so organized. Damn, Robbie."
The van was slowing to a halt, and Danny could feel himself starting to freak out. The weasel honestly didn't know if he was fast or good enough to fight the golden retriever and win. He knew for a fact he wasn't insane enough.
"Yeah, well..." Robbie said, turning around in what he hoped was a calm and even manner. "That's my tool kit. It's for when I need to fix something. A hobby of mine. I like to be prepared."
"Danny could learn something from you. He can't find anything. Remember when you spent like, two days looking for that screwdriver, man?" It wasn't really the reaction Robbie was hoping for. Ian held up a scalpel to the light of the sun, running it across his claw. "You keep 'em sharp, too? You're a wizard, man."
"Yeah? Huh. Thanks." Robbie said.
"Here you go, guys." Robbie gave them a sheepish grin and a little wave of his paw. He was kinda cute, in that unique puppydog way.
"Later." Ian waved the dog off, while 'Danny' watched stoically. Man, what a weird guy. He was nice though... if a little quiet. For a fleeting second, he felt like he was going to miss the golden retriever with a shy smile.
Robbie was thinking about the same thing.
"I'm gonna be honest with you. Can I be honest for a second?"
The panther just snarled, the blood oozing from between his fangs already. BAM! The Wolf slammed his fist right into Michael's face again. It was getting hard to breathe; his head was in a bag. It smelled terrible, and felt like sack-cloth, and every breath of air he gulped down tasted terrible, forcing him to gag. It made Michael want to strangle whoever was doing this to him.
"It's killing me to do this. Do you understand that?"
BAM! This one hit right above his eye. CHRIST, if Michael could just MOVE HIS PAWS. But they were tied, and he was hanging by them. For now... there was no escape. Ian had him this time, but Michael could tell he was close to losing control. His torturer's voice was higher pitched, today, and shaking a little bit. Every detail counted.
"It's not that I like you. I don't. It's just that I get this weird little feeling whenever I punch you in the teeth. It's as if... somehow... you've done this before. Am I right?"
Michael's body jerked futilely, the ball-gag in his mouth quieting his words of rage. A solid knee drove itself into his crotch, and Michael fought to keep from letting out a whimper as his eyes welled up in pain, rolling back in his head. The nausea was unbearable.
"The marines are bad, man..." Somebody in the room laughed. "But they're not THIS bad, are they? No, that would be terrible. I can't imagine sending our boys to a place like this. Somebody else did this kind of thing with you."
The memories were almost worse than the pain. Michael fought them back, trying to keep himself centered and in control. There was a happy place somewhere, and he was going to find it. Just keep calm... If you die, you die, and if you live, they die. The panther mentally chanted it to himself. And then he felt the paw between his legs, sliding his jeans down, and then his boxers.
"Was it your dad, huh? Did he touch you down here?" It was a large paw, a heavy paw... but it was loving, and cradling the panther's bruised sack, as if it were trying to comfort him in a way. A pair of claws stroked the feline sheath.
"Nah. Your dad was weird, but he'd never do something like that. Maybe it was your gym teacher, huh?"
The paw worked faster, and the panther trembled a little bit. He fought himself to keep from feeling any pleasure. When he closed his eyes, there they were. His past was snarling at him like an angry dog with huge, sharp teeth. It wanted him back.
"No, no... not him. He wasn't even fucked up. He just liked to look at young athletic boys. His husband woulda killed him if he knew. No, whoever did this kind of thing to you... they were fucked up really bad."
The panther choked a little bit, and he lost his grip on himself. A little whine escaped the bag, but all it earned him was another punch in the mouth, sending dribbling blood flying inside of the sack. His body swayed a little bit with the force, dangling in the air like spit from a two-year-old puppy's muzzle.
"Or maybe not. Maybe they just hated you. Maybe they thought you were sick. Maybe they thought you deserved it." The voice chuckled a little bit. "Nope, that's stupid. They KNEW you deserved it. I know you don't deserve it, and that's why Miles is watching this right now. See? He wouldn't quit crying, so I had to put a gag on him, but he's here. Say hi, Miles!"
The panther twitched again as he felt a little touch on his leg. The paw of a very nervous, very frightened raccoon with no tail, and no will of his own. Days had passed, and Miles didn't even speak anymore. He was a slave, a servant, a thing. Ian had literally eaten his skin and fucked him so much that the raccoon was broken, drooling all the time with wide eyes. But Michael could bring him back. Michael could save him. So long as Ian left the poor kid's head alone, Michael would get him counseling. Just the minute he saw his opportunity...
"He's learning. What a cute kid. Anyway, I figure when this last happened to you, you were fighting in the war? Is that right? You... DID fight in the war, right? Make a noise for yes."
Michael let out a little, solid ‘uh-huh', his throat constricting a little bit as the paw bashed itself, this time hitting him right in the eye socket.
"See now, that's what I figured. You look like the hero type, you really do. They tortured you, they brought you into a room, put a sack over your head..."
The paw around the panther's sack squeezed tight, and a little more of his feline penis spilled out into the open air.
"And they did the most horrible things to you, I hear. It's a wonder you're still sane. I'm here to tell you, man, that's really fucked. You're the absolute toughest guy I've ever seen. I heard they even made you and your squad polish eachother's knobs. Is that true? Fucking gross."
A pair of lips were wrapping themselves around his shaft now, and the panther could hear Miles whimpering, only to be quieted by what sounded like a kick to the stomach. The raccoon didn't even sob. Michael's heart was pounding... what a brave kid.
"Which leads me- in a very round-about way- back to my point. I feel bad for doing this."
The panther shook, making the chains binding his wrist and legs clank as a rough tongue ran itself over his cock, forcing blood to fill it, making it hard and long and as powerful as it could get. Michael was slipping. He was losing control- his body was betraying him. Some sick pervert was licking him hard, and he was allowing it. His dad wouldn't have stood for it. His commander wouldn't have just let it happen... again. Hot shame was washing over his body in waves, and hot tears were staining his muzzle.
He wasn't supposed to like it. And he was in front of Miles, too. He was being pleasured by a killer right in front of the person he had to protect. He was such a failure. Only a fuckup would let something this depraved happen twice. Only the most worthless shitstain would let himself be treated like this-
No.
NO. He wouldn't lay down and take it. That bastard wolf was going to die when he got his paws free. Michael was going to choke the very life out of his throat. He would LIVE. He would LIVE, and save Miles, and they'd go home, just like last time. Survivors. Heroes. And nobody would know what really happened to them. Ever.
"It sucks when something bad happens to you twice, doesn't it? Well, I can appreciate that, Michael. You're a wounded kitty, and we hurt you bad. You've already been through so much. It's almost over."
There was an uneasy silence before he felt it.
"And that's why I'm changing the game. Doesn't it piss you off when a band covers a great song, but ends up fucking it up at the end by trying to play the same guitar solo?"
Michael could feel it coming, and his entire body writhed with blind fear, every muscle straining to get away, only to tear themselves against the chains.
"I'll bet you anything THIS didn't happen last time!"
Miles started screaming through his gag- the panther heard it clear as a bell. A high-pitched hellish nightmare sound filled the room as Michael felt white hot fangs rip into the base of his feline shaft, piercing the flesh like needles and sending all the blood stored within spraying up his belly. Like a dog playing tug-o-war, the muzzle yanked and yanked and yanked, pulling the panther's entire body with each tug, more and more flesh snapping and spilling their contents all over the concrete.
Michael could feel his throat starting to screech silently, muffled by the ball gag. His veins were popping, his skin was snapping, and his entire crotch felt hot and wet, like he'd cum all over himself. He could hear a wet *plop* as his severed dick hit the ground, and the maw came back for more, biting at the loose ends and bleeding tendrils. His mouth wouldn't close, it wouldn't stop begging the fangs to stop. He was such a bitch. So weak. So fucking weak.
By the time the mouth bit into his testicles, the panthers eyes had rolled back up into his head completely. He could hear Miles, but he sounded distant now, his frantic howling squelched by a soft stomping noise. The panther's lungs heaved, his heart raced, his body felt so heavy, so hot...
He wanted to sleep so bad in his own bed. Not this prison cot in some godforsaken corner of the earth. Tomorrow, he'd save his friends. He'd pull his entire squad out of there, and they'd all go home, silent heroes. Tomorrow... Tomorrow... sleep...
When Michael woke up, his legs felt wet. He hadn't peed in days... had he messed himself? God, everything hurt so bad. Where was this place, anyway? Oh... oh God... This place...
The memories seeped into him like water into a sponge. His paws raced to his jeans, unzipping them. The zipper was sticky with blood, and it took a little force, but there it was. His entire front was bandaged heavily, and the bandages were red, too. How long had he been like this? His jeans were absolutely soaked. And where was his jacket?
Oh. He had been sleeping on it. He gripped it in his paws. It smelled like his blood, but it was better to have it on than off. The feeling of heavy canvas around his shoulders was comforting, and at least he would have that... It was warm in there. Warm and comfortable. Michael took a deep breath, and let out a relieved sigh-
His paws! His paws were free! A jolt ran through the black cat! Freedom! Real freedom! His legs weren't chained either! He could move! He could move!
The marine shot to his feet, and immediately sat back down. The room spun, and he felt it like a kick in the chest. He hadn't been upright in days. As the blood washed back into his eyes, he watched the purple spots blind him. Shit! Shit!! He couldn't get careless now. They wanted him to die, but he was ALIVE. This chance couldn't be wasted.
He was alive! Ha-HA! The Wolf had mutilated him, punched him and tortured him, but he was ALIVE! Michael fucking Williams was ALIVE! And he would make that fucker pay, oh yes! He would fuck that Ian up, break him in half. Maybe even rip off his dick. That was fair, wasn't it? Fuck yeah.
Miles. Where was Miles? He had that responsibility, too. It wouldn't do to leave him now. Michael decided to try standing up again.
Shit, he was hungry. He would have killed for a cheeseburger. Or some of his mother's lasagna. No! Focus, Mikey! One paw in front of the other... it hurt to walk, but fuck that! He had to leave. He could feel pain when he was free of this murdering psycho and his fucking sex dungeon. It was still dark, but Michael could see. He could see just fine...
"Miles..." His voice was hoarse. That wasn't good. How long had it been since he'd had some water? His tongue wasn't swollen... maybe Ian had given some to him while he slept. Michael was sure that psychopath didn't want him dying of mere dehydration. That had to be it. "Miles." He called again.
Well, he found Miles all right. Cringing in the corner, on his hands and knees like a pet, the raccoon sat panting. His tongue was hanging out the side of his muzzle like a dog. His eyes were completely blank, wide and unseeing. He didn't even look when the panther said his name. He didn't even flinch when the feline took his paw. "Get up." Michael whispered. "C'mon. We'll get you out of here. We'll get you help. But you gotta come with me. Come on."
Miles turned his head, and crawled a few feet before laying on his side, trembling. He wasn't even shackled. Did he even know how to leave anymore? His mind was clearly broken. Fucked beyond repair. FUBAR. For a second, the panther wondered if saving him was even worth it. ... No. That was selfish and cruel. Michael wasn't going to let him starve down here, after he had gotten away. The very least he could do was try.
His entire body hurt as he scooped the shaking little raccoon up into his arms. Miles wasn't a small guy, but any regular day of the week, carrying him would have been nothing to Michael. But his muscles shook under the weight all the same, his abused body barely able to keep a grip on the shattered coon. "Shut up, Michael," he whispered to himself as he started up the stairs toward the light. "You can carry him. Do it or you're worthless. Do it or you're less than a man."
The stairs were grueling, and by the time he'd gotten the raccoon's quivering body all the way up the stairs, his own body was feeling a little exhausted. His muscles didn't want to hear it. They promised him pain, and they would deliver, days down the line, but Michael made it.
Michael fucking made it.
The sky was overcast as a black panther emerged from the bomb shelter and into the heart of the forest, carrying what looked like a mutilated pile of cloth that was shaking like leaves in the wind. Ian was reaching into his truck at that exact moment, trying to find some more gauze. His tail wagged a little, and it was clear to the panther that his spirits were pretty high, despite the awful looking day. Cautiously, Michael knelt to the ground and laid his friend down into a patch of soft-looking grass. He was lucky. The Wolf wasn't looking. This was his chance. He was going to end this fucking nightmare, and all the other nightmares that would have come after it. His blood was eager, it felt like flame coursing through his body. His eyes narrows, his fangs bared. Michael prepared himself to rip the life from The Vermont Wolf. He was going to break Ian in half. For Miles.
Alas, he only made it two feet before Ian turned around. Their gazes locked, and adrenaline shot through them. Their fur stood on end.
The wind wound itself in a low sigh through the trees.
In a flash, the panther was at his throat! Ian slipped back against the truck and ducked under a vicious punch, lifting his knee and kicking the feline back. Michael tore his leg out of the way and leapt again, this time grabbing the wolf by his neck and slamming his head against the truck window. A knife fell from Ian's grip.
"How do you like it, psycho!?" He snarled, tightening his grip, pinning Ian's arms back with his elbows. "I'll fucking kill you for what you did to Miles! For what you did to me! For what you did to everyone! You're gonna fucking die in my arms like the bitch you are!"
Ian gasped for air, smashed up against the truck. The wolf kicked out again, knocking the panther to his knees with a sharp blow to the knee. Within seconds, Ian had him pinned, gripping the cat by the neck. "Who do you think you are?!" He half-howled, winding up for a crushing blow to the panther's head. Michael's paws were there in an instant, bending the lupine in half with a punch to the balls. The pair rolled, clawing at each other and snarling death threats and curses into each other's ears.
Michael practically howled with glee as he slammed the wolf's head against the dirt, choking him with one paw. His other paw reached out and grabbed it, a perfectly sized rock. He raised it high, pinning one Ian's arms with his knees. He was death now!
He had won! He was a hero!
And then he felt the knife twist in his back. The rock fell from his paw as his mouth opened wide in a silent scream. His lungs sucked in a breath that wouldn't come. A little, cherished paw ripped the knife from his back, wiping it on bloodstained jeans. Calm green eyes looked down on him.
"Miles...?" He strained his eyes. Things were getting kind of blurry. His head was spinning... he needed a place to sit down. Michael plopped himself down in the grass. "What?"
Miles shrugged his shoulders as the panther felt the fury bleed out of him. Everything was really cold now. In a sort of comforting way. But something bothered him. "Miles?" he said again, mouthing the word over and over again, rolling it in his mouth. "Miles?"
Miles knelt on the ground beside the panther, laying him back on the grass. His eyes were calm. "Miles?" The panther said again, twitching a little bit.
"Who's that?" The raccoon said, pulling back his hood. Black tipped ears?
"Miles?" The panther said again. The wolf under him could just barely make out what he was saying.
"Yeah. Miles." Miles said as he slammed the knife into the feline's skull. Everything went dark. Miles...? Miles...? Miles...? Mile...? Mil...? Mi...? ....? ...? ...
Ian watched as Miles leaned himself against a tree, and began to sob.
The road was long and silent, that night. It had taken Ian almost an hour to get his fill- and he was still hungry. He watched the road fly under the truck, still picking stray strings of muscle from his teeth and wiping the blood from his muzzle. THIS was how you felt alive! He could still hear the horror in the panther's voice as he whispered the name of his killer again and again.
In fact, it had taken minutes before, in a fit of feral annoyance, Ian had snapped the cat's neck with his jaws. Miles, Miles, Miles... how pathetic. His paws were still stained with the grime from pulling Michael's ribcage back. Ian licked them proudly, growling in dominant pleasure.
Danny wiped the makeup off from around his eyes. Sure Ian had to do all the work, sure he would get all the credit for ripping apart the dead marine's insides, but who had twisted that panther every way his frail body and ego would bend? Danny.
A war veteran, a hero, morally solid and mentally tough: Michael was truly a work of art. Danny could tell that from the first time he looked into the panther's eyes in a shopping market so long ago. He was unbreakable. Untouchable. Hell, he had even been tortured before, way back when there was still a war going on. Rumor had it the enemy was a cruel one, and just reading about the horrors Michael had endured and walked away clean from lit the weasel's blood ablaze.
Danny could touch anything. Danny could touch anyone. Anyone at all. Even if his lupine friend had to do all the work, who's name had the Panther's lifeless throat poured out again and again? Miles! Miles! Miles! Danny. He tried not to laugh as he untucked his tail from inside the leg of his jeans.
Some things were just too priceless not to dwell on.
Epilogue
It was three in the morning.
"Hello?" Ian groaned, looking at the numbers on his clock with absolute contempt.
"Oh! Hey, uh... Is this the Ian? Ian White?" The voice on the other end was really shy. Ian could barely make it out.
"Ugh... Yeah. It's me. Who's this? And what do you need at..." he checked the clock again. "3:04?"
"Sorry, I know it's late. This is Robbie. Robbie Goldpaw? I gave you and your... raccoon 'friend' a ride in my van a few days ago."
"He's a weasel." Ian said flatly.
"Oh. Well, uh... I have a something I gotta ask you."