Author's note: Be warned, here there be monsters. There is some violence and torture and blood in this fic so if that's not your cup of tea better stop reading right now. Still reading? Good. I hope you'll like it :) oh and one more thing: Nothing mine, not making money with this, yada, yada...
„Do you know why he's making me do this? Because he knows I'll hate it. He knows that even the thought of doing this makes me feel like I'm going to heave."
He sighs defeatedly and leans against the wall, clenched fists buried in the pockets of his trousers. His whole body is tense.
"Everyone knows that this is the kind of thing that Fergus loves doing. That little ferret must be fuming that Hal didn't let him do this. Or more likely he's laughing because I have to do it. Yeah, he's definitely laughing."
He frowns and pulls his shoulders up towards his ears in a slow, languid shrug, too short shirt sleeves riding up his arms to reveal thin wrists. The jacket had been discarded as soon as he entered the room, thrown messily over one of the horizontal bars of the cell door without worry about creases or stains.
"He could have asked Roy or Jack or whatever those thugs are called. They would have been a much better choice. They would have known how to do this. But no, he tells me to do it. And he knows that I can't say no to him. Won't dare to say no to him. And I've only googled this stuff, I have no experience, no idea what I'm even supposed to do."
He pushes off the wall and walks over to the stainless steel table like a sulking child, all hunched and frowning. He looks over the arrangement of tools with his hands still in his pockets. The flecks of dried blood make the corners of his mouth turn down in disgust.
"Torture isn't part of my job description."
He coughs out a bitter, humourless laugh.
"But then my job has pretty much become obsolete. No use for solicitors these days. No use for secrecy. No arrests, no courts, no law suits. Just him. Judge and jury. Only fangs and fists and no subtlety at all. That's the Old One's for you. It would all have gone so much smoother if he'd listened to me. But no…."
A weary sigh escapes his lips. Then he shakes his head as if trying to shake off the memories. The bitter taste of rejection is still pungent even two years later. He can still hear Hal laugh, see the dismissal on Snow's face, see their stupid, uncomprehending cave man faces as he explains his plan. You can take the Old Ones out of the middle ages but you can't get the middle ages out of their minds. Those stupid senile lumps of meat hardly know how to operate a TV remote. All they know is mindless immediate violence.
"It's completely their fault we've only very narrowly avoided running out of food. What were they thinking? Were they thinking? You can't just kill or recruit every human in your path, it's just dumb. How would there be any left afterwards if that is your strategy to win this war?"
His eyes flicker momentarily to the prisoner as if waiting for a reaction. Seeing the blank look on the other man's face he lifts an eyebrow.
"You're really not the most talkative fellow. Hal said you haven't spoken even one word since Fergus and his marry band of miscreants captured you and your people outside London. I'm actually impressed you managed to stake one of the idiots before they knocked you out. You're only human after all…."
He trails off, gaze returning to the table. He reaches out one hand towards the tools, slowly, carefully, like reaching for a poisonous snake then recoils as if in fear before touching them. He backs away from the table fist once again burried in his pocket, and circles the man standing in the middle of the room. The prisoner's feet were chained to the floor, his hands chained to the ceiling, forcing him to stand upright all the time. His arms must have gone numb by now. His eyes travel over the prisoner's ripped and dirty grey suit, the unbuttoned shirt and waistcoat, with barely any interest. One foot pushes away the discarded grey tie, coiled on the floor like a dead snake.
"You really should just tell me what I want to know, Mr. Rook…Dominic. Can I call you Dominic? We were practically doing the same job, you know, before? We're practically colleagues. I am a big fan of your work, actually. You are extraordinary. A human making sure all the rest of his kind can sleep safely believing there are no monsters prowling the night. In some way your work actually helped the Old Ones with their take over, you know? They just had to get rid of the governments, the ones who knew about us, as quickly as possible. All the other sheep were too busy picking their jaws off the floor afterwards to form an effective defence. It just took them too long to finally believe that there actually are vampires. Some didn't even want to believe it while one ripped out their throat. That's humans for you."
He stops his circling in front of the other man looking up at his face. He studies the bruised features, skin so white even a human could see the veins beneath it. He licks his lips as the craving hits him like a fist in the gut. When was the last time he'd fed? Yesterday? No, must have been at least two days ago.
"And even after all you've done, all your work, suddenly didn't mean anything anymore because the entire world knew about us you didn't just sulk in your bunker or something. No, you went and joined the resistance. Did they ever really accept you, Dominic? Did they ever really trust you? The man for whom lies and deceit are second nature? Did they ever really appreciate your outstanding mind?"
He started pacing the cell again not really expecting an answer by this time.
"You're a strong man, Dominic, strong and ruthless. You didn't even blink when Hal had all your people killed in front of you. Not even when Hal took his time with that girl of yours. What was her name again? Nadya? Natalia? It was one of those names Eastern European whores have. Oh and how she cried and sobbed your name, over and over. It was heartbreaking, really. And yet….and yet you didn't seem to care at all."
He takes a deep unnecessary breath before reaching out towards the table again. He gingerly picks up a knife, fingers unwillingly closing around the stained and sticky handle. The blade is shining and sharp. With clenched teeth and lips compressed to a thin line he makes a shallow cut from the prisoner's right shoulder to his left hip. Drops of blood follow the path of the knife, beading slowly on the edge of the parted skin before running down to soak into his trousers. The prisoner tenses a little at the sharp pain but no sound escapes his lips. The knife shaking slightly in his tense grip he makes another cut alongside the first one. This cut is slightly deeper, the blood flows slightly faster, making him swallow as he watches it draw red paths on white skin. He feels his eyes scorch black, the desire to rip the prisoner's throat out singing a siren song in his head. He drops the knife and turns away, mumbling to himself to calm down, to get a grip. He repeatedly wipes his hands on his trousers as he laughs dryly.
"See, I really don't have any idea what I'm doing, and I'm really, really hungry. I might very well end up accidentally killing you if you don't tell me what I want to know."
He turns back around when he has a firm grip on himself again, when his eyes hide the burning hunger once more. He thinks he sees a tiny flicker of emotion in the other man's eyes, something like hope.
"What? Oh no, don't think you'll get off that easily. The information Hal thinks you have is way too important to allow you to take it to the grave. And that is why I've been ordered to recruit you if you start dying on me. Not like I've ever recruited anyone before but if Fergus can manage it I'm sure I can as well. It will hurt, of course. And you'll be scared, terrified, at what you'll see. But who knows, it might change your mind about keeping your silence. Maybe if you're one of us you'll be more inclined to help us…?"
He nods to himself as he picks up the knife again. He visibly steels himself before making another cut to intersect the two already existing ones. This time the prisoner can't contain a groan as the knife scrapes over his rips, cutting into the bone slightly, nearly getting stuck. With shaking hands the knife gets put back on the table. The blade is blunt now, coated in a thin film of drying blood.
"Maybe I should just recruit you right away? I bet if I do and we just leave you here the hunger, the craving, will be a worse torture than anything I could do to you now. Believe me, I know how terrible it can get, how it claws at your insides and makes you want to rip off your own skin and tear out your hair. It will eat away at you until you're nothing but hunger and fury."
He watches the other man's face, sees the tiny movement of muscles as he clenches his teeth, sees his eyes momentarily flicker away and lose the staring contest.
"That's the only thing you're actually afraid of, isn't it? Becoming one of us, one of the monsters. Oh how you must have looked down on us before."
He steps up close to the other man, so close their chests nearly touch, eyes fixed on the pulse beating in his neck. He licks his lips again and watches the blood flow sluggishly down over chest and abdomen.
"Yes, I think that would be best. Don't you, Dominic?"
He sounds distracted, like he isn't even aware that he's talking, as he slowly leans down to lick up some of the spilled blood, to lightly suck at the deepest wound. As soon as the first blood touches his tongue his eyes scorch black again and he gives in. He grips the other man's head and leans close to his face, close enough to feel his prisoner's breath on his lips, close enough to see the pupils dilate in fear. He harshly pulls at the blond hair, stretching the neck for easier access.
"Now look what you made me do…"
The prisoner screams as he feels the fangs tear at his neck. He whimpers at the sudden disorienting feeling of light-headedness as his blood pressure drops and his heart speeds up to compensate. His heart is strong but it fights a futile battle. He is barely conscious and too thirsty to refuse when a bleeding wrist is pressed against his lips and he gulps down the cold blood like water. Then his heart stops and Cutler sinks back into a chair, wiping the blood off his face with a shaking hand. He starts his prisoner's stop watch to see how long it will take him to awaken then closes his eyes to enjoy the rush, the satisfying feeling of hunger being sated.