Title: The Quiet
Rating: T+. (see trigger warnings below; also, foul language)
Type: Multi-chapter.
Genre: Hard Chase!Whump. Hurt/Comfort. The likes.
Characters Involved: Chase D.; Original Male Character (+whole Davenport family)
Summary: "I'm scared," Chase breathes, his cracking voice resonating throughout the damp chamber like a broken echo of a person that once was. Chase's eyes are closed, seconds away from falling under. Seconds away from the painless, blissful dark of sleep. "I've never been this scared before in my life." And just like that, Adam's blood boils beneath his skin. || In which: civil blood makes civil hands unclean. OR An ancient feud bred of distaste reignites in burning ire when someone wanders where they aren't supposed to. This is the story of caution thrown to the wind, where they ended up, and all that remained after all was said and done ... and how Chase, standing too selfless, stood just an inch too close to the edge. —Too close, and he found himself plunged into a world he was never meant to be a part of.
Disclaimer(s): I do not own Lab Rats, nor am I affiliated with the production in any way. This is a work of fiction created solely for enjoyment purposes, and I do not claim the characters, settings, plots, or anything else belonging to Lab Rats as my own property.
Anything Else: Several Trigger Warnings Apply. Including, but not limited to: Psychological torture, Physical torture, nightmares, light gore, etc. Possible mentions of rape in future chapters. || Surprisingly, this is MY story, and MY interpretation of the show and its characters. If you don't find it to your personal liking, keep in mind that, like the TV show itself, Fanfiction is incredibly subjective. Don't get your bionics in a twist.
Author's Note: Hello, all! Welcome to my first attempt at a Lab Rats … torture, thing. I dunno. Any reader is always perfectly welcome to critique the story for grammar issues, character OOC-ness, and other errors – just keep in mind that angry flaming doesn't help anyone!
In regards to the frighteningly short length to this particular chapter, please keep in mind that while this is, in part, my own personal style, it is also a very brief way for me to set up a scene that I don't want to reveal too much detail on yet. Because it is a Prologue, expect chapters of greater length in the future!
I know this is a lot of information to take in, so with that said — adieu!
PROLOGUE
In which: A fire burns, slow and steady, devouring its cauldron.
Twelve forty-three in the morning
Unknown location
The way the liquid moves … well, you would think it alive.
Sloshing gently against the glass. Dancing against the brim, silent, tipping, tipping … almost dripping …
… More dangerous, perhaps, are the mouths that open and whisper and softly touch tongues — the cracked lips that part and murmur tales of wretched poison. It's civil, but it isn't; well-mannered despite ugly lies and smeared laugher hidden behind every dignified nip of cherry wine.
It's civil, but it isn't genial — oh, no. The only thing cordial about the affair is their liqueur, and every pretty face (every nondescript suit and tie, every self-appointed person of import) knows it to be true.
They laugh. They smile. They jest.
They snicker and they smirk and they insult.
They extend the cruelty further still, too; why limit the hostility to themselves? With an untapped reserve waiting to be drowned in a sea of wont, desire, and, best of all, obscurity?
The lot of them — the sniveling, the obese beasts at their bests — for all their faults, they're smart enough to how the world works, at least. Those that don't are long gone; forgotten, by now. Left behind years past.
You just can't make business of a person who you resent for once smearing your name under the influence, or wreaking insult upon your house on a bad social call. You forgive and forget, and if you can't, you pretend. Simple as that.
Still, this rule holds true for only themselves. Who's to say the man sliding a wineglass between your fingers is above that of a doormat? Or that the man handling your business affairs shouldn't be shoved aside without the least bit of courtesy?
Or that the man who happens to be wealthier than all of them combined doesn't deserve whatever punishment they decide upon?
It's the justification they exercise, anyway. Maybe for the outsiders, but never for themselves. The need to justify something would imply the operation you're conducting has something wrong with it. Something immoral.
It doesn't.
They're businessmen. Entrepreneurs. Magnates hiding behind swathing curtains of alluring silver, enthralling gold.
Rusted.
So they keep him behind a crimson curtain ("Ah! The colors match!" someone exclaims with glee, before the show has even begun), unclothed ("Slugs nor leeches bother with things as tedious as clothing. You'll fit right in, Worm."), and dizzy with a mulled cider (a drug, he would think) that leaves him with a sweetness clinging to his tongue. The scuffs against his elbows, the cuts and bruises painting his body in an erratic pattern of blood … he knows for certain one of his legs is broken, but at this point, he feels nothing. Entirely, blissfully numb. He thinks perhaps his wrists are bound behind him, but what can he tell in this state, in this stupor?
When the show does begin, when the crimson finally parts…
…Chase Davenport sits before dozens upon dozens of people, his knees curled into his chest, and never before in so much pain.
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