Sooo I'm kinda laggy on my main fanfic I have uploaded here, since I've been really clogged with personal crap and focusing on my art. I've gotten stuck in the Ratchet and Clank fandom for a damn long time, so I've been focusing on it the most. This is really my first bit involving the Smuggler, since he is my favorite character from the games :3 He needs more love, anyway.
This is possibly an AU fic, though since it was derived from the script I have for a fan-comic, I suppose it's a bit of both. For now, I'll just leave this one at AU because I dunno how else to put it XD ...Or we could just say it happened while Ratchet was running around looking for Clank. I dunno. Use your imagination―I just wanted to write something on how things might have been if the Smuggler wound up in prison.
Do keep in mind, also that yes, Zordoom sounds rather...harsh in this. That's because I wanted to follow how in the game it was made out to be the most feared place in the galaxy, I wanted it to BE like that. So, torture galore :B
Go easy on me too. I don't know the Smuggler like the back of my hand, but I've written him how I imagine he would have been.
Disclaimers: I own none of the characters, they all belong to Insomniac. This fanfic and the idea, however, is mine.
Hot, sweaty, humid, blinding orange-y red skies, that was all Zordoom Prison had to offer. The metal floor and walls were blazing hot, there was clearly no air conditioning in any part of the prison, not even in the locker rooms, if there were any at all...it was difficult to confirm since one never really knew anything about the place other than where you went to bathe, eat, work, and...be tortured. Most notably for torture and punishment. The cells were small, cramped, and hideously uncomfortable. It was just a metal box; no bed, no toilet, no sink, no nothing. That and the constant screaming and roaring of other inmates and monsters, the lingering stench of blood, sweat and vomit, the heat always beating onto the backs of its prisoners. The food couldn't even be considered to be real food. It didn't even taste like it. The showers weren't much better either―though they rarely made trips to those even. And the torture chambers...there was nothing worthy of describing their brutality accurately.
Zordoom Prison was, quite literally, Hell itself.
One prisoner knew this all too well, having been caught almost a year ago. Much to his amusement, it was about time he was captured. Then again, he was stuck in Zordoom. That caused any humor to dissipate. He was both surprised and not surprised that he was here. He'd finally been captured after running from the law for so long...yet the fact that he was actually there really drove a knife into his side.
He was taken to the showers with a few other inmates who had just come back from the torture chambers...which was never a good sight. One either had severe burn marks, lacerations or large gashes on their bodies...it always made one feel extremely intimidated...even for him. And he rarely got intimidated.
Though right now was when that was all he felt besides anger, frustration, and exhaustion. He had washed up as he was ordered to. His punishment was a whip to the back...a whip with a small blade on the end of it. He was completely bare, as he turned around and stared at his back in the mirror across from him, showing his light blue skin and darker colored markings. Over them were crosshatches of bright red marks, some very deep and blood dripping down from the wounds and down his back. It looked like a Grunthor stomped on him.
God, it hurt so bad...
It hurt. It hurt like crazy. Out of all the pains he'd felt, what he would receive here had to be the worst. He'd been in many situations that involved him getting cut and bruised, but these were far worse, and the former was just out of pure survival-ism.
Here in Zordoom, he had been whipped, burned, shocked, cut, and beaten. It was a living nightmare. And he was stuck here. He had been stuck here for at least a year. It was a wonder how he was still alive. Then again, he was never one to back down so easily...he may have been bleeding, bruised and burnt...but he was not broken. No, it would take a lot more to break him.
He suddenly winced and hissed through his teeth once the shower water hit his back. It was supposed to be refreshing but dear lord it was the exact opposite! It felt like a hundred needles shooting into his skin, causing him to reel back and arch with a pained shout, moving away from the shower head. He leaned against the wall, groaning sharply through gritted teeth and clenching his fists.
Even the showers were painful...when one would expect them to help relax.
Sucking in a breath, he leaned back to try and wash the rest of the blood off, allowing the shower water to hit his back once again―it stung no less than the first time. It still burned. He cursed in a shout and completely moved away from the shower, growling and slamming a fist onto the wall, kneeling down to help regain himself.
This was not worth it...none of this was worth it!
He never really thought he'd think that. Probably because he would get lost in his cockiness and assumed that he would never be caught, even if the authorities were really too stupid to track him down and keep up with him. He always escaped. Every single time. Even if they were right on his tail, he always found some way to disappear from their sight. He was never caught. Until last year, of course.
"About damn time..." He had said when they finally got to slap some handcuffs onto his wrists. It was a confusing quote for them, though even then he had to admit he was frustrated. He'd spent years and years eluding their grasp and he was doing so well at it. It was entertaining...for a while.
Until now.
No, now he wanted to ram his head into the wall enough times to possibly knock some sense back into his thick skull.
How in the world did he get caught? How was that possible? He should have been more careful! And now look at where he was at; suffering day to day in Zordoom wishing he'd just jumped in a lava pit instead of having to go through hours of having a white hot metal rod pressed to his skin.
He was a damned idiot.
He cursed himself under his breath―mostly for sheer stupidity for winding up here. He'd been in Zordoom a year, with no luck of escaping. Anyone who tried...were never seen again.
He...wasn't all that naïve, however...
He stood up and looked in the mirror again, seeing most of the blood was washed away, though not enough to be called 'clean', it'd have to do for now. Not satisfied in the slightest, he turned to grab a nearby towel and dried his head off, moving to his chest, shoulders...and then very hesitantly over his back.
A towel over wounds like that...
He wasn't sure if that was a good idea or not. The fabric would most likely stick...but with dried blood mixed with water...that would hurt even worse. Drying it now would probably be best. Gently as he possibly could, he wrapped the towel around his back and motioned around in circles to try and dry it. He was seething; god, it stung like mad! He groaned in pain, spitting out a curse with enough venom he could've hoped to kill one of the guards with.
Angrily, he threw the towel to the side onto the floor and reached for his prisoner scrubs―torn, filthy looking tan rags with his inmate number on the shirt. He made sure to be careful when pulling the shirt on. He turned to look at himself in the mirror. He noticed: he'd forgotten about the collar around his neck. If he did anything wrong it would deliver a painful shock to his body, and if he tried to escape, it would detonate. They...didn't exactly play around with their inmates, here.
Once clothed, he turned to shout at a nearby guard, who was also his 'escort'. "All done, half-pint."
The Drophyd guard wasn't impressed. "Would you like me to take you to Chamber Thirteen?"
He but barely winced at that. Chamber Thirteen was where some inmates were taken to have their tongues cut out. This was usually a punishment for constant bad-mouthing.
The guard saw his recoil and made a satisfied "Hmph" sound in his throat. He stepped out of the way to allow him to pass. "Ladies first."
I've heard that so many times I could probably predict every time it's about to be said. He thought.
He lifted his hands and electric bands were placed around his wrists in the shape of handcuffs. Saying nothing, he passed through, only to be roughly shoved forward by the the barrel of the guard's gun. "Get moving!"
He yelped out from being pushed so harshly directly on his wounds, groaning loudly and bending over in pain. If the water or towel didn't do it, then that certainly was enough to get him to want to collapse.
The guard was unperturbed, however, and shoved him again. "Move!"
If he snapped back he'd be taken directly down to Chamber Thirteen, and he really did not want to deal with anymore of that for one day than was needed. Gritting his teeth, he regained his composure and began walking, pain striking him in every step he took. It wasn't just his back now, it was his feet as well.
Directly below them was lava, the heat rising beneath the grates and causing the metal to become hot. His bare feet began to burn. He trudged his way down the corridor; and here he'd just taken a shower, he started to sweat from the heat of the lava. This place was hell. Just pure, unrelenting hell. He'd try to reach up and wipe the sweat off, but he didn't bother. He was covered in enough of it mixed with blood and grime in his scrubs, it wouldn't make a difference.
And that collar constantly choked him. It was difficult to sleep with that thing on. Well...it was difficult to sleep anyway but that just made it worse along with the lack of any kind of bed.
He passed by another inmate he knew, it was a young girl who always looked helpless and terrified. She didn't look any older than fifteen, and never really spoke much. Why in the world she was here was beyond him. She always looked scared though, which gave him the impression that she was an innocent...or it could just be an image she kept up to try and gain a sliver of sympathy from others. Looks could be deceiving. He knew that all too well.
She disappeared behind them, the guard shoving him to get him moving quicker. He scowled, but did as he was ordered. That was getting annoying. He was in pain, and having that guard constantly push him on his wounds not only hurt, it made him angry. If he did that again he wasn't sure if he'd be able to contain himself. There was only so much he could tolerate, even after a year.
Finally they arrived back at his cell, the Drophyd turning to punch a number into a small pad. He didn't move, though turned his head slightly to glance behind him at the guard, if possible, to see the code he was inputting. Though the Drophyd saw this, instantly causing him to turn his head around. So much for trying to see the code.
The door unlocked and lifted, showing a very unwelcoming return to the metal walls and floor of his new 'home'. All it offered was a single window with bars through them. His muzzle twisted into a disgusted look. Though after a year...he had grown used to it somewhat.
Once again―as it seemed like a routine for this particular Drophyd guard―he shoved him inside causing him to land on his knees. He'd been pushed enough today. He was starting to get pissed off. He gasped, having landing on his back harshly, then growled and rolled over turning to try and land a kick at the guard, though his foot landed against the metal door of his cell instead. He shouted angrily and kicked at the door again, attempting to knock it off the lock, though the Drophyd managed to slam the door shut all the way in time.
"Cocky bastard!" He spat, uncaring if it resulted in punishment this time.
"Look who's talking!" The guard laughed and turned to walk away.
He growled and hissed, rolling over again so he could lie halfway on his side and stomach. Ooh god landing hard on his back on that metal really hurt that time. He tried not to move too much. He just laid there, in a slight uncomfortable position, though enough to keep his skin from hurting too much.
After a moment of lying in silence, hearing nothing but the sound of his own tiresome breathing, he pushed himself up and leaned on his side against the wall, lifting his head so he could stare out the window a few minutes. This...it was difficult to explain. It was boring, painful, tormenting...just sitting there in a blank cell for hours upon hours until it was time for him to do some work.
He'd put up with this for long enough...he honestly hoped...no, he wondered how much longer he'd have to deal with it. He wasn't weak, though. This he was well aware of. Sometimes, however, the physical pain he was put through in this prison made him have second thoughts.
He sighed and lowered his head, staring at the floor.
Damn you sound pitiful...
He scoffed. He really did sound pathetic. He was surprised how easily he was reduced to such a weak looking doll. But here, he couldn't help it. Everyone sounded pathetic in this prison, and everyone wound up being broken...in numerous ways of the word.
For a moment, he felt himself slowly drift off into sleep, though his eyelids would open a few times to try and keep himself awake. He didn't necessarily like falling asleep in this condition.
Then, suddenly, he thought he heard the sound of something fluttering, and the shadow of what appeared to be wings on the floor of his cell through the window. The fluttering then stopped, and he heard what sounded like tiny beeping sounds, then they stopped as well.
He raised an eyebrow and opened his eyes fully, looking up from the floor to look out the small window. Nothing appeared instantly, he waited a minute...then, a small bug-eyed bird appeared in sight and landed on the rim of the window, looking down at him. The bird had red feathers with the tips of a few fading into yellow, large eyes as well as a large head, but a tiny body. He knew immediately who this was.
The two kept eye contact for a few seconds before a large clunking sound was heard, the door opening only slightly.
The door was unlocked.
A wide grin slowly stretched across his muzzle. "There's ma buddy."