The Last Game
So, I've had this story floating around in my head since I first watching Rogue Nation about a week ago. I was struck by how creepy Lane is during the scene where he kidnaps Benji, and since I'm a horrible person, I thought: what if he was even creepier, and it was Brandt instead of Benji? So, I wrote this.
Before we start, there's a whole slew of warnings I have to get out of the way. This is not a pretty fic! It gets very dark, with heavily implied male-on-male rape and psychological torture. There's also some Brandt x Ethan, if you want there to be. I've never really written anything like this before, so be gentle in the comments, please! I understand if the subject matter does not appeal to you. However, I'd like to make it clear that this isn't meant to be torture porn or to appeal to anyone's fantasies. That's why I'm avoiding writing any graphic sex. It's intended to be more of a psychological exploration of the human psyche, and the good (and evil) that we're all capable of.
Okay, if I haven't lost you yet, I hope you enjoy the story, and would love to hear your thoughts! This won't be a very long fic, and I'll try to update regularly. Thanks for reading!
- Dr. Kitten :)
"Nur für mich bist du am Leben
Ich steck dir Orden ins Gesicht
Du bist mir ganz und gar ergeben
Du liebst mich denn ich lieb dich nicht
Du blutest für mein Seelenheil
Ein kleiner Schnitt und du wirst geil
Der Körper schon total entstellt
Egal erlaubt ist was gefüllt
Ich tu dir weh
Tut mir nicht leid
Das tut dir gut
Hör wie es schreit
You're only alive for me
I pin medals on your face
You are utterly devoted to me
You love me because I don't love you
You bleed for the salvation of my soul
A little cut and you're turned on
Your body already completely disfigured
Whatever, anything goes
I hurt you
I'm not sorry
It does you good
Listen to it scream."
- Rammstein
"Ich Tu Dir Weh"
"Open your eyes, Agent Brandt."
Will ignored the voice, preferring to feign unconsciousness until he got his bearings. He was seated in a (rather uncomfortable) chair, restrained at the wrists and ankles. There were two – no, three – other people in the room, one of whom was unmistakably Solomon Lane, the criminal mastermind responsible for his presence here. Will felt twin jolts of anger and fear twining through his chest, pulling his muscles tight. He struggled to relax. Don't let him see.
"I know you're awake, Brandt," continued Lane in a soft, almost friendly tone. "Or would you rather I call you Will, as Ethan does?"
The sound of his friend and leader's name on Lane's lips was unbearable. Will twitched, then let his head loll to the side, trying to pass it off as a muscle spasm. It wouldn't be too unrealistic for him to have one; he could still feel the burn in his side where they had tased him, though the prongs had been removed from his flesh.
Concentrate, Brandt! Ethan's voice thundered through his foggy brain. What are your injuries?
Will took careful stock of his body. Aside from the lingering pain from the taser, he was unharmed, but he was under no illusion that that would not be the case for long. He had been taken for one reason, and one reason only: to convince Ethan to give up the ledger. He was a hostage, a bargaining chip, currency in human form, and he knew that Lane would not hesitate to do whatever it took to force Hunt into making the deal. If that included breaking one of his best agents, well then … the Syndicate leader would probably enjoy every bloody minute of it.
Memory check! insisted his mental Ethan. How did you get here? What's the last thing you remember?
The airport. They had cornered Ilsa Faust at Heathrow, determined to use her to get to Lane, only to find out that Lane had already hijacked that idea. And Will had been the first to realize their mistake, thanks to the gun suddenly pressing up against the small of his back, and the voice that hissed in his ear, "Don't make a sound unless you want to see them all die, right now."
It had been an audacious grab, relying entirely on the size and chaos of the crowded environment, and on Will's decent nature, and it proved that Lane was desperate. He was running out of time, up against the wall with nowhere to turn, and Will didn't like it. Nothing was more dangerous than a cornered beast cut off from escape.
Hands abruptly seized either side of his face, and he felt hot breath on his skin, alarmingly close. Lane's forehead pressed against his in a grotesque parody of intimacy. The other man's skin was vaguely moist, clammy almost. Will reluctantly cracked open his eyes, squinting to keep Lane in focus.
"This doesn't have to be difficult, you know," the former agent murmured. "I am a reasonable man, Will. Help me, and I'll help you. I could offer a lot to a man such as yourself."
"Stop talking and just get to the torture already," replied Will, aiming for apathy.
Lane chuckled, and it was undoubtedly the creepiest sound Will had ever heard. A shiver ran up his spine and he shuddered in spite of himself, wanting nothing more than to jerk his face out of the terrorist's grasp. He forced himself to stay still as Lane's hand left his cheek and trailed down his neck and chest to fist in his belt.
"Oh, I'm not going to torture you, Will," he said, still laughing. "I have a great admiration for perfection, and you are … perfect." A slight tug at his waist emphasized the word. "No. No, there will be no torture. I have much better uses for you."
He leaned forward without warning, gripping Will's hair and tugging his head to the side to expose his neck. Lane's mouth closed over the sensitive skin, teeth pressing against veins and tendons, tongue flicking out to soothe the bite. Will sat frozen, paralyzed with horror at the turn this interrogation had taken. He was unsure if Lane was serious or simply fucking with him, but either way, it was bad.
"Ethan's gonna kill you," he ground out, only prompting another repulsive chuckle.
"I'm looking forward to it." Lane released him and stepped back, resting his hands on his hips as he surveyed his helpless captive. He nodded in satisfaction. "Get him ready."