How much does it take to break a person? In the end, not much. We humans are already walking on a dangerous tightrope, suspended over a chasm of madness. One wrong step, and you fall. Some cannot escape, and so they break. The madness takes them. Others have the strength to climb out of the pit; they are stronger for it. And some are rescued, pulled from the clutches of the darkness. Most are not so lucky.
But even those who are saved remain broken. Some wounds are too deep for time to heal, rather they only grow harsher. And yet, a few are pulled out of their broken shells, and reborn anew.
This is a story of one of of those possibilities. Of a young boy, dragged away in the dark of night, and torn apart by a few scared and angry men. Of a young boy, broken and scarred. Will he be broken? Will he be saved? Or will he save himself? I won't ruin the story by telling you which one he will turn out to be. That is for you to find out, if you choose. Or perhaps you are bored by now, and have already lost interest. If so, I apologize for that, and shall begin the story forthwith.
ATTENTION: This story is rated M for Intense Violence, Blood and Gore, Use of Alcohol, Use of Drugs, Use of Tobacco, Suggestive Themes, and Incest.
If you are under the age of 17, I would recommend you find something else to read. Not that most people will pay any attention to that. I mean, what are guidelines for? That said, you have been warned. Also, if you don't like incest, don't read this fic. This is ChifuyuxIchika, and I am not using the "Oh, it's not by blood so it's fine" excuse. They are brother and sister. Period. This does not mean I endorse incest, as it is against the law. Also, it isn't harem. I don't care too much for harem. I mean, I'll read it or watch it, but just not write it. Not my style.
It hurt - that was the only thing running through the boy's mind. It hurt. He could feel his throat running dry from all of his screaming, though now he lay silent. He could hear the brittle crack of bone, as a blunt object descended again onto his right leg, snapping it like a toothpick. He could taste the coppery tang of blood running into his mouth, and onto his clothes. He could smell the putrid stench of burnt flesh drifting up from his left hand, scarred beyond repair by a burning iron rod. And he could see the drill bit descend towards his face, blood-stained, and terrifying. But to the boy, none of this truly mattered. All he cared about was that it hurt.
And so, he would put an end to it. The grinding of steel being rent apart was the only warning before the boy's already damaged left hand shot up, and grabbed the spinning drill bit. The drill tore into his flesh, mutilating it even more as it punched through his hand. The man, holding the drill, took a step back in astonishment at the action, and that was all the boy needed to stop the man, and by extension any more pain from hurting him. He couldn't take the pain. All the boy wanted was for it to not HURT.
His barely still functional right hand also pulled free from the table, and he wrenched the drill from the man. Turning it towards the man, he shoved it forwards, slamming the sharpened point into the man's skull. He had just killed a man, but the boy didn't care. After all, IT HURT!
The other men standing around the boy went for their guns, but the boy beat them to it. He grabbed a gun that had been carelessly placed next to him, and opened fire. The thunderous sound of gunfire erupted into the night, and he lowered the gun. Maybe by luck, maybe by chance, maybe even by some sort of divine intervention, but every one of his bullets flew true. In the back of his mind he registered the thump of five bodies hitting the floor, but it wasn't his concern. All he could think about was that IT HURT IT HURT IT HURT…
And now, he would end the pain. A shaky hand raised the gun to his head, and then lowered it. The clomp of combat boots on concrete reached his ears. Well, that was fine. He would just kill them first. Yes, that was a fine idea. Kill the people who had hurt him. Maybe that would make it stop hurting, because Oh God it HURT!
He was able to pull the shackle from his left leg, but the right one remained firmly locked. Well, what was a little bit more pain on top of all the rest? He lowered the drill to his leg, just under his knee, and pressed the trigger. The drill's engine whined, and the table he had been locked to was stained with blood. And it still hurt.
When the group of armed terrorists burst through the door, they found a pitch black room. Flipping on their flashlights, they were confronted by the still warm corpses of five of their comrades, and the bleeding leg of the boy, still clamped to the metal table. Sweeping their flashlight beams across the room, they looked around. A shout from one of the men resulted in the other six turning to look at what he had found. It was the door on the other side of the room. The hinges had been broken off, and the door swung haphazardly open. The men carefully exited the room. But while eight had entered, only seven left. The last one paused for little more than a second, and he met his end as a blood-stained drill cut through his throat. As he died, the man's last thoughts were about how. Much. It. Hurt.
On hearing the gurgling cries, the other seven men spun back around, and were met by the barrel of a gun. They had no chance to react. It flashed, and they died. The boy lowered the gun he had pulled from the man he had just killed, and stumbled backwards, yanking the drill out of the man's throat as he did so. He fell backwards onto the ground, and took in the corpses in front of him. Perhaps, had he still been in a normal frame of mind, the boy would have been disgusted by the fact that he had just ended twelve lives. Right now though, he didn't care that they were dead. A fleeting thought flickered into his mind. How stupid they were. As if he could have run away. He was missing a leg, and bleeding from so many places. All he had done was break down the other door and hide under a body. And they had missed him. And just as quickly, the thought was gone, replaced by the fact that the pain was still there, and that It HURT!
The boy tore a strip of one of the men's shirts off, and wrapped it around the bloody stump that was his right leg. He grabbed another one of the rifles, and used it as a sort of crutch to limp out of the door the men came from. The other stolen rifle he held pointed forwards, though it shook. After all, his left hand was still burnt to a crisp, and couldn't really hold the gun up, what with how much it hurt.
He stumbled down a corridor for what seemed like an eternity. It was a dull, concrete thing, and to the boy it seemed that for every step he took he left a part of himself in that bland hallway. It stripped away his joy, his sorrow, his hate, his love, his purpose, his very soul. By the time he finally came to a door, he was almost an empty shell, every cell in his body throbbing in pain. The only thing he had left were his memories of his sister, for that was the one thing he refused to forget, in spite of how much it hurt.
On the other side, he could hear voices, so he threw his body into the door and glanced around. All the people were wearing the same dull grey clothes that the men he had killed wore. So the boy squeezed the trigger.
The men had not expected an attack yet, and so were caught mostly unaware. They fell like wheat before a reaper's scythe, mercilessly cut down in a rain of lead. But, as all guns do, the boy's gun ran out of bullets. There had been twenty men in the room, and only five remained, but they were angry. They spun around, and took aim. The boy's head cracked back, and he fell to the ground clutching his face. As the world faded to black, thoughts turned to something strange, and he could have lept for joy. It no longer hurt! His blood pooled around him, but it didn't hurt! He could feel the throbbing of his mutilated leg, but it didn't hurt! The pain was gone! It no longer hurt!
Seconds later, the doors to the warehouse they were in burst open, and an armoured Hummer burst through. The machine gun mounted on the top spun into action, and tore the remaining terrorists apart, blasting their bodies into bloody chunks.
More terrorists began to run in from other rooms, but the turret simply turned towards them, and painted the walls with their guts. Within minutes, more and more vans roared into the area. Soldiers clad in black and grey army fatigues swarmed the room, sweeping it of threats. One of the soldiers found the boy's body, broken and scarred. He yelled for an ambulance, and within a minute the boy had been loaded onto a stretcher and was being rushed to the nearest hospital.
The boy's sister had arrived on the scene just as he was being loaded into the ambulance. She stayed by his side until he finally reached the operating room and she was asked to wait outside. It was a long wait. Each hour seemed to be an eternity to her. The only thing running through her mind were doubts and questions. Would he have been hurt if she had never taken place in the tournament? Was it her fault? What kind of sister was she, if she couldn't even take care of her own brother?
Hours later, she was finally shaken from her restless sleep by a doctor. He just looked sadly at her, and shook his head. "I'm sorry. We can't save your brother. He's still alive, but there's nothing more we can do for him. There was too much internal damage, and when combined with the shock from loss of blood he'll be dead within the next three hours. You can see him if you like. Again, I'm sorry."
With slow steps, she walked down the pale white hallway. She paused in front of the door, before finally working up the courage to go through. She stepped into the room, and gazed down at her brother's face.
A bandage wound its way across his face, binding his left eye beneath a length of gauze. More gauze entombed his right leg and left hand, and crisscrossed his chest, hiding the multitude of stitches that she knew covered his chest. As she stared down at his broken and dying form, regret filled her mind. Finally she decided. Pulling out her phone, she entered a number that she had never wanted to call.
"Save him." Her demand was simple.
"Hmm? I have no idea what you're on about." The voice that answered was unhurried, lackadaisical, and whimsical.
She gritted her teeth, and took a deep breath. "Do NOT! Play games with me. I am well aware that you know what's going on."
The other person just laughed. "Of course. I never could get anything past you, could I? Well, fine then. I can help you. It'll cost you though."
"Deal." For her, it wasn't even a consideration. After all…
"Your brother really means alot to you, doesn't he?" The voice was a whisper, right next to her ear. She flinched, and spun around. Her hand lept to the knife she kept hidden in her jacket sleeve. A sharp jab of pain sent her to the ground, clutching her arm in pain. A steel-toed boot crushed her into the floor. "Ah, ah, ah. None of that. Just as twitchy as always, Chi-chan."
"Tabane…" She glared up at the person standing on top of her. Tabane was an older teen, maybe eighteen or nineteen years old, and she was dressed in a blue and white dress that looked straight out of a fairy tale. "Just… Do what you need to do, then go back to whatever hole you crawled out of. And stop calling me that. My name is Chifuyu."
Tabane just smiled down at her. "So cruel, Chi-chan. Well, I can fix your brother's body, but his mind? That's another matter entirely. I can't make him whole again, not with everything he's gone through. But you already knew this. So tell me, is this for his sake, or yours?"
Tabane just kept peering down at Chifuyu. Chifuyu lowered her head, and looked away. "I can't lose him. Not now…"
Tabane just raised an eyebrow, before lifting her foot. "Well, that's your choice. Sure then, I'll put Ikkun back together. Let me see. He'll need a new hand. Oh, and a leg. An eye as well, and a new liver. Three ribs… Hmm…" She began muttering to herself, before her eyes widened in realization. "Right. Hold still, Chi-chan. Can't have you watching, you know?"
Tabane whipped out a syringe, and jabbed Chifuyu in the neck, before she even had a chance to protest. Even as her vision faded, she barely heard Tabane whisper something. "Well, it seems the drug worked." And then she knew only darkness.