19 Literally Just 2k Words of Torture

A/N: WARNING! The title isn't an exaggeration, this entire chapter is literally all torture. This is where I earn that Tokyo Ghoul tag, so if you're squeamish, then maybe just skip the chap, personally, I think it's fine, but I'm the one writing it, so that probably just says more about me :p Enjoy!

Also, give me stones and reviews pweasee!

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Waking up is not some jarring experience.

There is no sudden jerk to consciousness, no jumping out of my skin.

I simply go from nothing, slowly gaining lucidity, lying with my eyes closed, my mind reluctant to fully wake.

Only, after a moment, I realise that I am not lying down.

I am sitting.

"Oh good, you're awake." The surprisingly cultured voice immediately grabs my attention.

Suddenly fully conscious, memories flood my mind of my meeting with Equaliser.

I'm not sure what happened exactly, but if I had to guess, he lied about his power.

Obviously.

He's probably a power nullifier, which would explain why the coffee was so shit, it was probably drugged.

"This is my room, make yourself comfy." The voice continues, and it's only then that I actually open my eyes, which immediately widen.

The room is 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦, like a small stadium, or a large ballroom or something. The floors are chequered black and white and the walls of red metal beams form a dome.

Am I in an observatory?

The room looks even larger for the fact that nothing is inside of it except for the man in front of me who is built like a truck, with white hair, a black dress shirt with a lime vest over the top and white dress pants.

"I'm glad you're here. I've wanted to invite you over for a while now. Since the moment I heard of you in fact."

My body feels lethargic.

I try to stand, only to realise that my hands and feet are chained to the legs and arms of the chair.

𝘊𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬.

My attention is once again brought to the man before me who now has one of his hands raised, showing off a pair of golden claw rings on his middle and pointer fingers, the latter of which is the cause of the sound as he used his thumb to crack it.

Before I can speak, he keeps his monologue going.

"So please," He says as he puts on a mask before finally turning to face me allowing me to see his 'face',

He is wearing a white hockey mask, with a pair of holes above and below his eyes as well as six small holes over his mouth.

But that's not what grabs my attention, no. All I can focus on are his 𝘦𝘺𝘦𝘴.

They are wide and bloodshot and more than anything they just sparkle with malice, with cruelty and madness, with 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘵𝘺.

Even with how interesting my last couple months have been, this is the first time I have ever been confronted with such madness and I can't help the intake of breath.

I feel my body start to shake just from looking him in the eyes.

"Do your best not to disappoint me, alright?"

His voice, once calm and cultured takes on a cadence that more matches his eyes, one of violence and pain.

A shudder rakes my body and I hear my heartbeat in my ears.

A whimper escapes my throat and shame burns alongside the fear that I am reduced to such a state just from his eyes alone.

He turns away from me, moving back to his table, and it's only then that I notice his.. 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.

From scalpels to a particularly large dark golden plier that I really don't like the look of, especially since it is covered in dried blood.

But that is not the object of the madman's attention, no, that honour goes to the syringes on the other table.

"Power suppression fluid," He says while clearly suppressing his sick glee, "do you know what that does when it enters a parahumans' body?"

I stay silent, not trusting my voice to speak clearly and not wanting to entertain his rhetorical question.

"It suppresses all power activity. When that happens, brute flesh might as well be construction paper, just as far as my scalpel is concerned."

It is clearly getting harder for him to hold back his insanity as his words start to have a slight chuckle to them, like he's struggling not to laugh.

Then he picks up one of the syringes, pushing it slightly to allow a single drop of liquid to drip down.

"Slices right through it, just like a normal human."

He starts to approach, needle in hand and I can't help the way I push my self backwards against the chair, trying to get as far as I can, nor can I help the whimpers that escape me.

"The only problem is, hypodermic needles can't break your skin."

There is something is his voice that tells me he is actually happy about this 'problem'.

"So I have to stick it in the one spot it will go through."

He pauses to lift a finger to his masks eyehole even as a horrible feeling consumes my gut.

Grabbing his lower eyelid, he pulls it down while looking up.

"That would be the mucus membrane, right in here."

My eyes widen as my fear doubles.

Quickly, I open my mouth, not really knowing what I'm going to say, but hoping to prevent this.

Alas, he doesn't care.

𝘗𝘶𝘤𝘩𝘪.

"AAAAAHHHHHHH!!!" I 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮 as I feel as the needle is ruthlessly plunged into my socket with no regard for proper medical practice whatsoever.

I feel the fluid 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 of me as it leaves it's confines and immediately I start to feel weaker.

My tails were already not responding to me, but now it feels even worse.

I'm reminded of how I felt before I lost consciousness, of my blood falling asleep, at least, that's how I can best describe the feeling.

I scream again when the needle is ripped out of my eye without care.

It only takes a moment before I can see again.

I wish it took longer.

In front of me, the man stands, holding a scalpel this time.

"W-wait, w-we can t-talk, r-right? T-there's no need for all of this, r-right?"

He leans closer.

"Oh but Tear, my dear. I 𝘥𝘰 need this."

His hand raises.

The scalpel is brought down, digging deep into my forearm.

I grit my teeth as I scream, trying my best not to give him the satisfaction, but my groan of pain only seemed to motivate him further.

The wound on my arm closes as he makes a new one on the other, only for that to close just as easily.

I scream.

He doesn't care.

I scream.

He doesn't stop.

I scream.

Slice after slice, flesh is carved from my body.

My arms.

I scream.

My legs.

I scream.

My organs.

I scream until my throat tears.

But just like everything else.

It heals.

He cuts me.

I scream.

"You should know."

I focus on his voice, the insanity a blessing from the pain.

"The scalpel is my least favourite tool."

A shudder racks my body as his tone tells me this respite will only be brief.

"I actually prefer 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴."

He hefts the large golden plier in front of me, brandishing it like a child during show and tell, waiting for praise.

"Let me show you why."

He raises his arm.

"It can be used for blunt force, like breaking bones."

Then, with incredible force, he brings it down.

Right. Through. My Knee.

Blood paints it's mosaic below us.

I 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮.

"Or," He brings the freshly bloodied plier to my hand and grabs a finger. 𝘖𝘩 𝘯𝘰. "It can be used to pinch and pull."

He 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘴.

With a sickening, squelching, 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘳, my finger is ripped off from the base, like particularly stringy cheese, I see my flesh stretch as it tries to resist the force.

One final tug, and it comes off in another spray of blood.

I scream.

"Or, it can even be used to cut."

He spreads the pliers wide, putting my wrist in the sharp part.

Then, with a simple clamp of his hand, my own comes of.

I scream.

"Now. I need you to do something for me."

I can't even see his face, everything is just too blurry-

Am I crying? I am.

I'm still whimpering.

I try to focus, but it's hard to see past the pain.

I hear his words anyway.

"What is", he pauses and I can only tell that his face is in front of mine by the hot breath that lands on my face, "one thousand, minus seven?"

The question throws me off, making me forget the pain for a moment as confusion takes hold.

Unfortunately, that doesn't last.

My leg heals.

The plier is raised.

𝘊𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩.

I scream.

The plier is raised.

𝘊𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩.

I scream.

"One thousand."

The pliers grip my finger.

A sound uncomfortably similar to that of crunching on chips rings out.

I scream.

"Minus seven."

The pliers grip another finger.

My voice, full of panic shouts out.

"One thousand minus seven is nine hundred and ninety three!"

𝘚𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘩.

I scream.

"Minus seven!"

Another finger.

"Nine hundred and eighty six!"

𝘚𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘩.

I scream.

Over and over again, he takes my fingers, my hands and I scream.

He crushes my legs, my arms and I scream.

He takes my toes, my feet and I scream.

Over and over and overandoverandoverandover𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰-

"AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

I scream.

"How far have you counted? I've lost track again."

"F-five hu-ndred... f-ifty...nine..." I choke out between sobs and whimpers.

Through eyes blinded by tears, I see the man, Jason, I think he said, put down his pliers.

"Take some time to recover, I'll be back in a little while."

I don't even have the energy to rejoice his absence, phantom pain of a thousand cuts still burning through my body.

I hear something behind me and I hate the way I shrink away from the sound.

I've become so pathetic.

A man steps into view, holding a mop of all things.

I only then notice just how much blood covers the floor.

I don't know how much blood a human body is supposed to hold, but I know that there is far, 𝘧𝘢𝘳 more of my blood on the floor than should fit inside a human or ten.

I start crying all over again just from seeing another person who is not Jason.

"H-hey." I call out, desperate for anything that isn't pain.

He doesn't respond.

"H-hey!" I repeat, louder.

He ignores me.

"H-hey, p-please help me. Please, I'll do anything you want, 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨." I say, and I'm pretty sure I mean it too.

Right now, I would do anything to escape this hell.

They don't say anything.

"HEY!!" I shout, anger overtaking me.

"Fucking listen to me asshole!! Help me! Please..."

My voice that started so full of energy, quickly dissolved into a pleading whimper.

He says nothing.

He just kneels down and grabs my foot and starts cleaning it with a rag.

It takes far longer than it should to clean the blood of my foot.

It's only then I realise that my pants have been torn off and now more resemble shorts, while my jacket is gone, leaving me in a white shirt that has similarly been ripped to have short sleeves.

My hands are now chained behind me.

I give up on asking for help.

I need to get out of here.

But what can I do?

I can't use my tails, and that fucking drug is still in my system.

I can feel it weakening me, infesting my body like a virus.

I breathe in deep through my nose, and for a moment, I luxuriate in the scent of 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘥.

My eyes track the scent down to the cleaner.

I need to eat.

Food will wake up my body, I'm sure of it.

Only, how am I supposed to do that?

Before I can even answer my own question, I realise that the cleaner is done and gone.

Then, despair enters the room once again.

"How far did you manage to count?"

My response comes without thought and Pavlov comes to mind.

"F-five hun-dred... fifty.. two..."

The monster walks in front of me, dragging an oil barrel behind him.

He kneels down and lifts up one of my feet, putting a toe between the pliers.

"I've got a bucket here. I want you to fill it to the brim!"

He pulls.

I scream.

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A/N: He~llo! Dear readers!

Alt Title: Ice cream you scream

Teehee, sorry to everyone who doesn't like this chap, but this is a tokyo ghoul/worm crossover, two stories who are famously cruel to their protagonists :D

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