Chapter Text
There's the squeal of brakes and the back of Tommy's head bangs harshly on metal, jerking him out of hazy sleep.
Silence follows. Seconds in which he tries to focus on his surroundings. It's dark; the rumble of an engine vibrating under his feet. The stench of gasoline wraps around him. His throat tightens. Disgusting.
He groans, the sound muffled. A wire muzzle cuts into the skin on the inside of his cheeks and chafes against the top of his mouth. His hands and feet are numb, heavy. He curls his fingers slowly, wincing as they protest at the movement. The metal restraints are too tight, cutting into his skin.
Tommy inhales deeply through his nose. He closes his eyes and lets his head rest back against the wall. Standard precautions. This isn't his first time with them, but he still hates it.
Fuck .
He wishes the sedative hadn't run out. This is going to be a long, unpleasant journey without it; feeling every jolt and rough stop shutter through his body and bruise him further.
He just hopes they're close to their destination.
It's been quiet for too long. Much longer than a normal stop at a red light.
Tommy opens his eyes, gaze darting around the container.
This is... weird.
He listens in the darkness, the only sounds the hum of the idle truck; his heavy breaths through his nose; the rush of his heartbeat.
A scream rises up. Tommy flinches, pressing back into his restraints as it keens, high and loud, a death cry of pure pain-
Then it falls silent and Tommy inexplicably knows the man is dead.
His heart jackknifes in his chest. His head whips towards the double doors he could just make out before him, eyes wide and terrified as they are ripped off their hinges.
What comes inside is no man, but rather, a monster.
Tommy whimpers low in his throat. He is vulnerable, caged in place and ripe for the picking. Uselessly, he tugs at the metal bindings, but they do not budge. He's never been strong enough to break through them.
Safety precautions .
For the humans. So he doesn't lash out.
For himself. In case his appetite gets the best of him.
He's always accepted them willingly. Uncomplaining even when it draws blood and they're so tight his fingers turn purple.
Because they help him.
Now they've become a death trap.
The monster stalks closer, posture confident and oozing with power. Tommy's eyes flick to the claw curling out of the thing's shoulder blade, the biological weapon that all ghouls have. It erupts out of the shoulder, heavyset and thick, a dark, unperceivable color in the dim light coming from outside. The end of it is pointed and sharper than any regular blade of metal.
Tommy gulps. A claw like that will easily tear him in two.
The ghoul stops before him, claw twisting idly at its side, red eyes boring into him. It smells like blood, undeniably the truck driver's.
Tommy trembles in his seat.
Please , he wants to beg. Please just make it quick.
The ghoul does not.
It grabs the nearest clamp - on Tommy's wrist - and - brushes it away like it's nothing more than cobwebs.
Tommy gasps, feeling flooding back into his left hand. The blood rush stings and prickles. He groans, fingers clenching.
When the last restraint is dropped unceremoniously to the floor, the ghoul tugs Tommy up, out of the chair. Immediately, his legs give out, and with a huff he is thrown over a broad shoulder and hauled out of the back of the truck.
Outside the night is cool, a waxing moon shining dully on the abandoned road they are on. A breeze ruffles through the trees, a dry whisper of autumn leaves, burnt golden-red.
The Ghoul jumps from the back of the truck, its knees easily flexing and taking the fall. Tommy is not so spared. He's jostled harshly, knocking his head against the other's.
"Sorry," he tries to say, but it comes out as a thin rasp between the muzzle bars.
There's no reply. Tommy is hauled around to the front of the truck and a little ways down the road.
Two more ghouls wait by the mutilated body of the driver. The man's chest had been pried open, ribs bent at awkward angles to get at the organs inside. One squats down, bloodied hands picking through the corpse the way a child might push around their dinner.
Tommy's stomach seizes at the sight. The ghouls hadn't even bothered to close the poor man's eyelids in respect. Those cold, lifeless eyes stare at him, frozen wide in pain. Eternally blaming Tommy for what had happened to him.
His breath comes faster.
The scent of blood is heavier here and despite himself, his mouth wets, craving and desire rising surely and swiftly.
He moans and grips the ghoul's collar.
No. He can't go over there. Not when he hasn't eaten recently and it smells so delicious-
He shakes his head. He needs to get a hold of himself. He's not a monster. He can control himself. He's not…
The crouched ghoul rips out a hunk of dripping flesh with a wet tear. Its mouth opens. Teeth flash, too white and pure, and gulps it down in one swallow. The meat smoothly slides down its throat with a satisfied hum.
The smell of blood, of iron, is intoxicating and Tommy's eyes roll from the richness of it.
God, he's so hungry .
He snaps out of those thoughts a moment later, horrified.
What the fuck is wrong with him? He's better than this.
Though it physically pains him, he forces his gaze away from the feasting ghoul and pushes down the jealousy and hunger.
"What do you have there, mate?"
Tommy's attention is snatched away by the new voice.
A ghoul steps forward, what looks like two black wings rising out of its shoulders and Tommy stares. How'd its claws get so big?
He pales.
"He was the only thing in there," the one holding him says, setting him down. Tommy resists the urge to bolt. He won't get far. His knees tremble. "Had a lot of security for someone so malnourished."
The first ghoul - the winged one - tuts, almost as if in pity, and reaches a hand out.
Tommy flinches back, but merely steps back into the chest of the big one that carried him. The third ghoul looks up from its meal, red eyes bright beneath the mask covering the upper half of his face.
"It's ok. We're not going to hurt you," Wings coaxes. "How about I remove that muzzle for you? Can't be too comfortable there, mate."
Tommy shakes his head, more desperately.
He can't have it removed. It's the only thing keeping him from feasting and without it he's not sure how strong his willpower is with fresh meat and blood so close. His eyes dart to the dead driver. He's getting woozy from the delicious scent wafting off him. No, no, no .
Wings cooes, gentle fingers brushing Tommy’s face and he shutters, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. It’s not hard to remind himself how easily those nails could cut through his skin; terrible hands break his bones. Maybe they’ll even laugh as they tear him apart, piece by piece, reveling in his screams as he is eaten alive.
The pressure in his mouth slacks and the bit in his mouth is pulled out, a string of saliva with it.
Tommy gasps, eyes flying back open in surprise.
Wings’ eyes crinkle happily and he tosses the muzzle aside; it cracks on the pavement and Tommy flinches.
He drags his gaze back to the ghoul and finally, finally takes it in completely for the first time.
He thought the ghoul was wearing a mask, but upon further inspection, Tommy can see that rather, a black protrusion extends out of the bottom of the ghoul’s face, seamlessly melding under its eyes in a beak-like form, reminiscent of a crow. It's black and shines in the moonlight, much like the ghoul's crystalized winged claws, rustling together almost like real feathers.
Tommy freezes.
This is no ordinary ghoul.
Heart stuttering, he turns his head, glancing up at the big one behind him.
A boar skull mask. A golden crown, embedded with rubies and diamonds and all kinds of precious jewels. The stories say that the ghoul has a flair for opulence, for majesty, despite its brutality.
The gravity of reality sinking in, Tommy glances back to the third ghoul. It wipes its bloody hands on the clothes of the dead driver, rising to its feet with grace and nonchalantly licks the blood that clings to its lips with a grin.
"Please," Tommy whispers. His knees give out beneath him and he crumples at the feet of the most powerful group of ghouls in all of L'manberg. "Please let me go. I- I don't want to die."
"Oh, mate."
The tone is soft, breathed through barely parted lips. Hands cup Tommy's face and it's tipped back, forced to meet red, hungry eyes.
Black wings melt, crow beak following suit; the ghoul's biological armor and weapon vaporizing in the air, revealing a far too human face.
Tears blur Tommy's sight. He blinks and they streak down his cheeks, freezing in the cold night air. He gasps, wrapping his arms around himself. This can't be happening. This can't.
This is just a bad dream , he tries to tell himself. His nails bite into his skin. All he has to do is wake up.
He does not.
The nightmare continues.
Warm, callused hands wipe away his tears and he's being lifted up, up, into strong arms.
"It's ok. You're going to be ok." False promises wash over him and Tommy can't do anything but whine, pushing feebly against his captor.
"We're not going to hurt you. We're here to save you."
It's only then Tommy begins to sob. This does not feel like salvation. This is damnation, gathered in the arms of the Angel of Death himself.
"Eat."
Placing human flesh on a fancy dinner plate doesn't make it any less horrifying. It doesn't change Tommy's mind about his self-imposed starvation.
He shoves the plate away decisively, ignoring the way his stomach clenches in hunger and his hands shake, itching to snatch the food - delicious, warm food and feast and feast-
He jerks, pulling himself out of the fantasy of - for once - eating until he's full. Going to sleep without hunger.
He can't. He won't . He's not a monster.
Not like them .
The Blood God huffs down at him, eyes narrowed in displeasure and fuck if it isn’t terrifying.
“No.” His voice wobbles pathetically. Damn it.
A brow arches and the Blood God pulls out the chair next to him and sits. He pushes the plate back in front of Tommy.
“Eat,” he says again. More forcefully this time.
“Not hungry,” Tommy snaps, shoving it back.
The plate finds its way back in front of him.
“Just eat. It’s obvious you’re hungry.”
Tommy growls. “Shut up. I’m not. I’m not .”
“You are. Quit denying it and eat already. I’m getting tired of this.”
Tommy balls his hands in his shirt and ruefully stares at the meat in front of him. It’s a light pink, a small ring of blood pooling around it from being thawed out. If he believes real hard, it could even pass for chicken.
His mouth waters.
One tiny bite wouldn’t hurt right? Just enough of a taste to push back the craving for a little while. He’s done it before, he can do it again.
Yes… he can do that.
Tommy’s fingers tremble, inching forwards-
And swipes the plate off the table. It shatters, sending shards flying across the kitchen tile. The Blood God rises to his feet with a curse, his chair falling over backwards behind him. Tommy curls into a tight ball, tucking his arms over his head, and waits for the blow to come.
The Blood God mutters to himself. There’s footsteps back and forth, a door opening, then the soft sound of sweeping.
Tommy dares not move, breath still as the ghoul comes closer. A muttered, “waste of perfectly good meat,” and he moves on.
There’s no screaming, nor violence. He is not killed immediately and the mess is cleaned with a sort of domestic tranquility that frankly, puzzles him.
Slowly, Tommy peeks his head out. The Blood God taps the broken glass in a bin then hangs the broom and dustpan up in a small closet. With a sigh, he leaves the room, passing by the other one, the… Mad Siren, Tommy thinks he’s called, who lurks in the hallway. The ghoul watches, silent, head tilted in curiosity. An unreadable expression burns in his eyes and Tommy glances away in discomfort.
The clock on the wall ticks. Four am.
The sound of whispering comes from the other room and he perks up. He lifts his head and strains to hear better but unfortunately can't make any of it out. Just as he considers sneaking out of his seat, it stops.
The Angel of Death comes into the kitchen.
"Hello, mate," he greets softly.
Tommy tenses, watching warily as the ghoul enters and rounds the table to sit on the opposite side. He relaxes. But only marginally.
The Angel of Death looks too casual. Too… human.
He's dressed in soft greens, blonde hair tied back out of his face and has a hint of stubble on his chin. He smiles, crow's feet crinkling in the corner of his eyes. It's all too genuine. It can't possibly be real.
His eyes are blue, Tommy realizes. Blue like his own. And that fact makes him queasy.
"Techno told me you refuse to eat. Can you tell me why?"
There's a brief second where Tommy thinks, who's Techno, then he locks his jaw shut and stares down at the wood grain in the table.
Everything about this situation is fucking weird.
Why?
Why did they kidnap him? Why are they acting kind? Ghouls aren’t kind . They’re monsters. Cold and cruel, that delight in killing and eating. They don’t have empathy .
His nails bite into his skin. He’s so confused and his head is all fucked up and most of all he’s so, so tired.
"It’s ok, you don’t have to answer that,” the Angel continues. “We didn’t exactly have the best first meeting. What do you say to starting over? Here, I’ll go first. I’m Philza, but you can call me Phil. What’s your name?”
Tommy hunches inwards. His eyes dart around the room, never staying in one spot for too long.
Phil - what a stupid name - hums, not a flicker of annoyance passing over his face when his questions aren’t answered. He leans forward a bit and Tommy scoots back, his legs braced against the chair legs.
The ghoul purses his lips, brow heavy and sighs. “It’s late and I’m sure you must be tired, but please, one more question. Can you tell me why you were in that truck?”
Tommy freezes.
“We received intel that whatever was in it was important to the CCG. We expected weapons, research, something like that. Imagine our surprise when we found you.” He chuckles. “This whole thing is very curious. If you could enlighten us in any way that would be helpful.”
“I-” Phil’s eyes bore into him at the sound, just barely passing between his teeth. Tommy winces at the crack in his voice. “I don’t know,” he lies. His heart races in his chest. “I don’t remember.”
Phil nods, slowly, thoughtfully.
“Alright, mate. It’s fine.” Tommy nearly slumps in belief, but then he’s pinned back under the weight of judgement. Under the scrutiny of the Angel of Death. “We’ll talk about this more tomorrow.”
His stomach drops.
Phil’s not done with him yet.
The Syndicate isn’t done with him yet.
And who knows if he’ll still be alive by the time they are.