Legal Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with The Suffering/The Suffering: Ties that Bind franchise, and my intentions are not to infringe on any copyrights and/or trademarks. The fur-bearing trout come in peace and bring fondue. No money is being made off of this story, it's completely non-profit and for entertainment purposes only, albeit the entertainment is of strange taste, like goat cheese. All of these characters are original The Suffering characters and as such they do not belong to me in any shape or form.

Rating: NC-17

Story Codes: One-Shot, necrophilia, death, general not-nice-ness.

Notes: After I beat the game, the three ghosts took over my mind and started me drawing and writing all things The Suffering (I like the The part... kind of like The Cheat). Hermes wanted his fan-fic written first (him's an arrogant little jerk, eh?), Killjoy's next, Horace is last.

This is based off of some weird thoughts floating around my head, along with something Horace said: 'Cause there are sick people out there, people with no sense of human dignity, people who will have sex with a dead person. I always thought he was talking about Hermes, but I don't have any idea why.

I also wondered why, of all Hermes's victims, Horace stayed and haunted Carnate. So I decided that he was the only inmate that Hermes respected enough to remember his name. Horace killed a woman, something Hermes had never done.

Italics mean thoughts

.+ means that there's a point of view or time change.

In the chamber there is an intense light, everything is visible. In the control room, the lights are off, you can't see anyone, no one knows you. I like that feeling.

I'm in command of the most important moment in their life, and they know it. This one, today's execution, was no different. He was afraid, even though just a few hours ago he told his sister that he'd be alright.

They all said that.

Everything will be fine, they say.

Then why do they scream when the gas is released?

+.+

The inmate squinted in the harsh light, pulling in vain at the restraints on his arms and legs. In the control room sat his executioner, Captain Hermes T. Haight, reveling in the suspense he imagined the poor soul was going through. He could almost taste the fear. Sweat beaded on the inmate's forehead and pooled around his armpits. His eyes flickered around the chamber.

There was no doubt in Hermes' mind that he would enjoy killing this one.

Hermes' gaze drifted from the inmate to the viewing room, as dark and mysterious as the control booth. Every now and then he saw movement in the darkness.

I have an audience, Hermes thought smiling at his good fortune.

He reached for the mesmerizing yellow button.

+.+

All I did was get a little drunk. I don't remember much else, I never meant to kill her. I was just playing around, she shouldn't have been wearin' that damn mini-skirt. I'm gonna die...

I don't want to! God, I don't wanna go!

God! God! Please, someone save me!

I want to go home... see my kids. Tell them I'm sorry.

+.+

Hermes leaned back in his chair and listened to the muffled hiss of the gas and the frantic cries of the inmate. So tragic, so melodramatic. He could almost see the gas clawing its way up the inmate's legs, swirling around his head, finding his nostrils and the life within. It enjoyed the kill as much as Hermes did. But it was all in his imagination, wishful thinking. The regulation gas was clear, orderless, totally imperceptible; much to Hermes's annoyance. And no matter how many times he lobbied the suppliers, it would remain so. He'd have to make do with his imagination, which was very competent.

He knew the gas. It was his.

The inmate started to suffocate, body convulsing with the fierceness of his attempts at freedom. Hermes always wondered what an inmate would do if he actually broke the bonds. Sometimes he'd loosen them a little, just a little, enough for an inmate to get his hands free. All they did was bang on the glass. It wasn't as interesting as watching an inmate struggle against the restraints, but he liked to watch anyway. He heard bones pop as the inmate struggled harder against his bonds. Hermes wanted to be in the chamber with him, have a closer look at the end of someones life, the most crucial moment in a persons life. Watch it. Taste it.

Hermes loved it when they fought. It lent more life to the gas, made it more real. Gave it personality. He almost giggled at the hopelessness of the inmate's fight, but regained his composure.

Giggles weren't professional.

Finally, the last shred of life fled from the inmate's body. Sighing with deep satisfaction, Hermes stood. The deed was done, but he still had things to do. He had to open the vent to clear the gas in order for the clean-up crew to grab the body and cart it to the morgue.

Though it was tempting to leave the gas inside...

Maybe clear gas isn't so bad after all.

+.+

That's the signal, y'all. All the gas's out. We've got ta get that body now. Come on, Tom, don't gimme that. You always have a bad feelin'. That executioner may be crazy, but he en't so bad a guy. Here, get the door open. Tom, stop that. You've seen a dead body before, no need for gagging now. Tom? You smell that? Hey, Tom. Get offa the floor, now. It's... kinda... hard to breath, eh? I got this fuzzy taste in my mouth, too. Must be my mind...playing tricks.

+.+

"Haight, how in the fuck could this have happened?"

Hermes sat in the warden's office, kind of bored with it. The warden liked his office to have an executive feel to it. Dark blues, comfortable leather chairs, oak desk.

He hated it.

"With the clear gas, it's hard to tell when it's all out--"

"You didn't even flip the vents on!"

"I thought I had already--"

"Two men are dead now, Haight."

"Three," corrected Hermes. He must mean two of the men that kiss his ass.

"Okay, three," said the warden. "That's beside the point. What're we going to do about this. How are we going to make sure it doesn't happen again?"

"I've been lobbying the supplier for colored gas."

"What'll that solve?"

"I'll be able to see that all the gas has gone out the vents."

"I was talking about your actions," the warden said, leaning into his chair. Smug little man. "You won't be doing any gassings for at least a month." Euek, like I'm a little kid to punish. Oh, spank me, Daddy. Hermes thought, biting his lip to conceal his smile.

"What?" gasped Hermes. "But, what about the executions? There's one this afternoon. You're not going to let someone else handle them!" Fuck! That control booth is mine! You hear me? Mine

"Calm down," the warden said, waving his hand at him. "You can preform executions. Just not with gas."

"Well, are we going to color the gas?" Hermes asked.

"I guess," shrugged the warden. "You can keep all the executions that are scheduled to you, like the afternoon one, but after all of those are done you'll be taking a vacation." The warden leaned closer to Hermes. "Haight, how many vacation days do you have? You could take the whole damn year off! Work's not all that important, you know."

Hermes entered the morgue and closed the door, flipping the light off, breaths coming in gasps of excitement. In the gloom he admire his handiwork. The inmate, the two clean-up crew members. They were his, just like the gas. And he had the right to use what was his.

The embalmers had already gotten to the bodies, which was unfortunate, but wouldn't stop him.

He pulled his shirt roughly over his head, walking over towards the gurney that held the inmate. Hermes stroked the inmate's face, then licked it. He wanted to taste the gas. The gas was what was important.

He eased the inmate's clothes off, smelling and licking the dead body as he went. The hands, the neck, the face. Everything that had come in contact with the gas. He couldn't smell the gas, not really, but he could imagine it. He imagined the gas liked what Hermes did to the bodies, it wanted his attention.

Hermes opened his pant's fly and eased the body into position, rigor mortis making it a bit difficult. He thrust into the body, groaning in satisfaction, and found a fast rhythm.

It wasn't for pleasure, Hermes did this to every inmate he killed. In his mind, he was just doing what the gas wanted. It needed him. His eventual orgasm would only be a process.

He bit his lip to bite back the moans. The door didn't lock from inside and he didn't want visitors.

However, Hermes liked the idea of someone walking in on him, he liked even more the prospect of someone walking in on him and watching.

I always preform better with an audience.

+.+

Hermes exited the morgue, spent and shaking. He'd never done more than one body a day, but he couldn't disappoint the gas. It had to be done to all of the bodies.

He looked at the clock mounted on the wall, twelve thirty. Hermes gasped, and hurried to the D-block.

He had to hear all the phone calls before the execution.

"Yeah baby, I got it! They agreed to the conjugal visit. I called in some markers with some of the C.O.s, they put in the good word. Yeah, they ail bad. Oh baby, it just drives me nuts thinking about ya out there in the world without me to keep ya safe. I love you so fucking much. I'll show you that, when you come. I can't fuckin' wait."

Hermes sat in his office, a simple thing with no decorations, listening to Horace Gauge's last phone call. He didn't call his mom, just his wife. For a conjugal visit.
Was the conjugal visit today?
He checked the date of the recording, Horace had called almost a year ago.

Curiosity overwhelmed him. This one didn't say "it'll all be fine". Horace knew death didn't play favorites. Hermes. left his office and headed for the holding cell.

Hermes saw Horace as a squat, middle-aged, uninteresting slob. He almost turned around and left, but he was too curious. to leave so soon. He neared the bars, Horace just stared at the wall opposite his bunk.

"Hey!" called Hermes.
Horace turned his head, blinking stupidly at Hermes. "Who're you?"
"Hermes, Hermes Haight."

"What ya doing here?" asked Horace. "Got a uniform, Am I going to the chair now?"

"No, I just wanted to talk."

"Talk?" snorted Horace. "What's to talk about? You wanna talk about me wasting what the reverend's good Lord gave me? About making all my family sad for stupid shit? You don't know a fucking thing."

"Yeah, I just... Tell me why you're in here. I want to know all about you."

"Writing a letter to mommy about human atrocity?"

"No I just want to know."

"Nobody wants the whole story, just lock 'em up, throw away the key, see ya next life," said Horace, bitter.

"I want to know," Hermes said. "Tell me."

Horace glared at him, but gave in. "I can't even remember what I'm in here for, beatin' up some guy, whatever. My wife, she come over for a conjugal and we fucked. I screwed her like I never had before. And then, as she was layin' there after, she looked so beautiful with that sheen of sweat on her, then I did it. I cut her. Every last inch of her. All over. I cut her."

"Why?" asked Hermes.

"I don't think you'd understand," replied Horace. "I just wanted to keep her safe."

"Was it like... immortalizing the moment?"

"Yeah, kinda," said Horace. "I guess you could call it that if you were some kinda homicidal maniac... Hey, what are you, anyway?"

"The executioner," said Hermes, regretting it the second he said it.

"Figures," muttered Horace, turning his head toward the wall again. "And you talk to your kills. What, ya get off on this?"

"No, no... not for electricity."

"Huh?"

"The gas," clarified Hermes. "It's the gas."

"Oh, I'm not your type," said Horace, chuckling. He shook his head. "Got no sense of human dignity."

"What would you know about dignity?"

"You gotta point," Horace sighed. "This gas is so important to you. Won't it mind that you're cheating on it?"

"No," declared Hermes, defensive. "The gas, it's not a person. It knows I have a job to do." Hermes thought about the swirling gas for a second. "I'll be a part of it. I'll taste it, in the chamber, and it'll take me in."

Horace snorted.

"I will do it. I'll taste the gas."

"You'll die, just like all the others. All of them that you put in there. You know that?"

"Yes."

"The gas isn't some club, you can't--"

"No such details will spoil my plans," Hermes snapped. "That's the kind of guy I am."

"Yeah. Same wit me... but I'm not so crazy, not by a long shot."

Fuck the system, they're as responsible for my old lady's dying as I am. But they need a scape-goat. They got people to protect too, I guess.

Hermes must be in that room right there. Crazy bastard, hope he does take the gas. I think he's gonna turn it-- Scalding!

Oh god... he's playing with me. I made him mad. Made his gas mad.

On no... it's back... it's starting again...

+.+

Hermes scowled and flipped the switch back off. Horace Gauge Horace Gauge Horace Gauge. His name raced through every part of his body. It was his fault.

He wasn't just "inmate", he had a name. He had a life. He had it all.

Worse, he knew Hermes.

Hermes couldn't hide in the dark control booth anymore. He was out in the open, Horace knew.

Horace Gauge Horace Gauge Horace Gauge Horace Gauge.

It wouldn't stop. It'd never stop.

On. Off. On. Off. On. Off.

Pay what you owe, you bastard.

Someone was at his shoulder, pulling on him, trying to make him stop. He didn't stop. He wouldn't. Horace Gauge Horace Gauge Horace Gauge Horace Gauge.

"Haight!" someone roared. "He's dead. Stop, you damn fool!"

He saw an arm rush forward, dangerously close to his face, saw the other arm make a better effort. He couldn't move. Horace Gauge Horace Gauge Horace Gauge Horace Gauge.

Pain in his mouth and nose. Noise swelling in his ears. He just let it all go.

I woke up in the infirmary, broken nose and some cuts, but that doesn't bother me. What bothers me is that all of my executions for the next year and a half have been taken away. They say it's stress. I need to see a doctor.

We'll pay you while you're not working, they say. You're just going through some tough times. We all do. It's natural.

I hear the nurse talking on the phone. The woman's got such a loud voice, doesn't she think I can hear her?

Maybe that's the point.

She says, There's some crazy guy in here. Captain Such-and-such. Roasted the skin off a dead inmate's face.

Horace Gauge--

No, I need to let it go.

+.+

"Hey, Haight!"

"Yeah?"

"I heard they got that colored gas liquid you've been wanting."

"Oh? What color?"

"Green. Too bad you'll never use it."

The C.O.s laughed, but Hermes didn't care. He could see the gas now.

Color of life. I like it.

+.+

In the chamber there is an intense light.

Hermes sits in the middle of it, the gas is already on. The green gas curls around him. It's beautiful. The only thing I've ever loved. He inhales, bringing the poisonous gas into his lungs. It burns him, his eyes, his throat, his lungs.

He doesn't care. It's a certain kind of pain.

He belongs to the gas, and it has the right to use what it owns.

First it giveth, then it taketh away.

(A/N): Now I'm wondering at my own sanity...

I've dumped in a couple of references to the Dresden Dolls, Halo, and Johnny the Homicidal Maniac.

Salmon for the first person to name them all.