Today's my birthday, yay! I'm updating my stories as a happy birthday to me.
Thank you everyone who reviewed; I've been too lazy to reply to reviews but I will for this chapter, I swear (hint, hint). I only spent about half an hour editing for typos (I probably should -_-) so hopefully there isn't too much off with it. Please enjoy chapter eleven.
xxx
They huddle behind the dumpster, clutching at each other, their breaths coming in ragged gasps. The dogs bark, far-off. Christophe hears the shouting of the low Heavenfilth.
"They can't be far!" one of them shouts.
Footsteps pound past them.
Maria's elbow digs into his gut. Chase wraps his chubby arms around Christophe's neck. The four of them curl into a pile, panic flaring through their veins.
They only just barely managed to scramble behind the dumpster before they heard the shouts. They hid just in time. Christophe is starting to be able to tell which one of the soldiers are low Heavenfilth. There's something in the way they walk, their confident strides that just seem a little too light.
Soldiers run past them, their boots clomping against the alley pavement.
Christophe can almost smell Gregory's fear. Sickly sweet, almost putrid. Like rotten fruit. The unwashed reek encompassing the four of them doesn't smell either.
A dog's nose pokes behind the dumpster and snuffles. Chase starts to let out a squeak but Maria plants a hand over his mouth.
The nose brushes against Christophe's ratted, stolen sneakers. He bites his lip hard enough to tear at it.
The nose shuffles along to Maria's ankle, which is bare below her ripped jeans. They all hold their breaths.
Then the dog lunges forward and sinks its teeth into her ankle.
She screams as it starts to drag her out. Gregory clutches her around the waist, but the mutt yanks her flailing form from behind the dumpster. The other kids scramble after her.
The dog is a German shepherd, huge, almost as large as her. It deposits her in the center of the alleyway. She tries to scramble away, but it catches her ankle again and drags her back. There's a crack! as bone shatters. She wails. The other dogs converge around her.
The three children shout and start to attack their dogs. Christophe punches at one, but it snatches his fist in its mouth and crunches down. He screams, struggling wildly, but it keeps its teeth firmly locked around his wrist.
"There they are!"
Through his haze of pain, he manages to look up and catch a glimpse of the soldiers hurdling down the alley towards them.
SLAM!
The grip on his wrist releases. Chase holds a chunk of cinderblock. The dog clutching Christophe collapses, and he yanks back, gasping, tears dripping down his cheeks from the pain in spite of himself.
Chase whacks the cinderblock down on one of the dogs tearing at Gregory. Gregory kicks the other one off him and stumbles to his feet, blood running down his face, his hair matted, his eyes wild.
Maria screams, dogs biting at her skin. Chase lets out a howl of rage and cries, "run!" to the other two.
"No!" Christophe starts to look around wildly for where Chase found the cinderblock.
"Just run, you fucking morons! Someone has to be free!"
He's never heard Chase swear before.
Chase lunges into the pile of mutters on Maria, batting at them with the chunk of cement.
Gregory grabs Christophe's broken hand, which makes Christophe scream in pain. Gregory ignores him and drags him down the street. The soldiers are shouting behind them, but they burst into the mob of people out on the city streets.
"Maria! Chase!" Christophe gasps.
"We have to get out of here!" Gregory snarls back.
"But-"
"We can't save them!"
He drags Christophe along, ignoring his cries. They head into a large park, sprint down the bicycle paths, then into the trees, lost in the growth around them. Finally, Gregory hoists Christophe into a tree and pushes him up to one of the higher branches.
Christophe leans against the trunk, struggling for air. Gregory perches on the branch below him.
"Ze Yardale school . . . eet will take zem back," he finally mutters. "And zey are going to make zere lives living 'ell."
Gregory stays silent, drawing in shallow breathes.
"You zink what 'appened to us before was 'ell? You 'ave no idea, English fag. You didn't go zrough what I did. You don't know what zey're willing to make us do-"
"Only because you won't bloody tell me!" Gregory screams.
Christophe stares down at him. He's never seen Gregory like this before, Gregory so desperately afraid.
"We 'ave to go after zem," he says.
"I don't have a plan."
"Eet's not about 'aving a plan. Eet's about doing what we 'ave to in order to save our friends."
"We'll get caught."
"We still 'ave to."
"Don't you get it. Christophe!" he screams. "I don't know what to do! I don't fucking know what to do!"
He's quiet for a long time after that.
I keep my hands jammed in my pockets as Maria shows me around the Yardale school.
"It hasn't changed much. Or, like, at all."
She talks fast, her words slurring together.
We take the stairs. None of us ever use elevators any more.
My words clog in my throat. We haven't spoken to each other in ten years. We should catch up or something, right?
The stairs are air-conditioned, the fluorescent lights humming. We walk slowly. We don't have any reason to rush. I catch a clock before we enter the stairwell. It's about ten o clock at night, although I don't feel too tired because I'm two time zones off and all I've done today is crouch in a cage and direct a demon in saving an innocent boy from dying of blood loss and infection.
Pretty typical day.
I wonder if they're still abusing Butters, if they got him some medical attention. Probably not. Cocksucking assholes.
"How'd you manage to stay free?" she murmurs as we clamber to the second floor.
"I ran and I 'id and I didn't trust anyone." I give her a wry smile. "'Ow'd zey manage to keep you in 'ere?"
She shrugs.
"Do you want out?"
She shrugs.
"You do, don't you?" I ask, alarmed. If she doesn't want out – if Maria, the queen of stubbornness and hot-headed tempers doesn't want out – then they must have broken her several times.
"I think so," she says quietly, her lips barely moving. She glances up at the video camera. Then her lips twist into a smile. "Hear that, maricónes? I want out of this fucked-up place!"
Then her laughter dies.
"There's no point, Christophe. We can't get the collars off."
She tugs at the metal band around her neck.
"I did, once."
"No way we could pull shit like you did," she snaps. "I still can't believe you fucking did that. That was actually fucking insane."
"Zank you."
"That's not a complete, asshole." She starts to jog up the steps. I grab her arm, she shakes me off, but I manage to convince her to slow down with the pleading look in my eyes.
"Gregory says zat Chase got out once and went to New Orleans after ze 'urricane Katrina."
"That doesn't count. He didn't take off his collar and they knew where he was the whole time. When they came to pick him up after he was done helping people, he didn't even fight, and they congratulated him for saving lives?"
"You mean zey were 'appy 'e 'elped people? I zought zey were all cocksucking assholes who were obsessed wiz winning zis war."
"They are, but they're still angels and stuff, and they still care about helping people." She sighs and pushes her hair out of her eyes with right hand, which is covered in a thick bandage.
I stay quiet for a few seconds, then I say:
"Do zey still 'ave all ze insane training? Ze life-or-deathz battle practices? Do ze-"
I manage not to ask if they still make them kill low Hellspawn. It's a touchy subject for all of us. Battling a monstrous demon who's trying to kill you is much different than slaughtering defenseless citizens who want to be there about as much as you do.
She jams her own hands into her pockets. "Yeah," she mutters. "All the same shit as before. We've got more freedom now, though. Sometimes they'll let Chase or me leave the school and go into the city, as long as we're accompanied with a guard."
"But never withz Gregory." We're on the fourth floor now, still heading up at a slow pace.
She makes a face. "They let us see him sometimes, when they're not sending him on one of his missions. They send him around the world killing higher-strength demons, converting simple heaven-allied cities into entire armies of low Heavenfilth."
"You do realize 'e 'as been hunting me down for years, and eet ees only because of 'im zat I am now captured."
"They made him, Christophe."
"Oh, really." My voice drips sarcasm. "Zen why did 'e do such a damn good job of eet?"
"They said he had to throw himself into hunting you down to prove his loyalty to them, that if he didn't they would hurt Chase and me worse." Her face colors with shame. We stop walking and face each other.
"Ees zat what 'e tells you."
"You used to trust him," she spits out.
"I knew 'e was ze trickster type from ze start."
"But you used to trust him. You used to love him. You used to love all of us."
"I still do, Maria."
She closes her eyes.
"They don't want to kill us, we're too valuable. But, Christophe, when we were little kids, right after you escaped, they Gregory if he didn't show them regular reports of trying to hunt you down, they would force Chase and me to fuck and have more High Heavenfilth kids when we got older. Breed like animals. Then they would send us out on the front lines when the final battle came. We'd make them win the war and we'd probably die in the process." Her mouth twists ruefully. "We'll probably still die when the final battle comes. All three of us. All four of us. But at least they think Heaven's army will win with us on their side."
"Mozzerefucker," I hiss out.
"Hey," she says. "At least I'm not raped anymore. Gregory put a stop to that. He has a shitload of influence. He basically makes it so the two of us aren't kept under lock and key."
"Mozzerefucker," I hiss out again.
"He just wants to make sure we're all okay," she says softly. "Even though he's their general, they make him wear that title."
"Even zough zere's a collar around 'is neck-" I jab at my own. "Zat does not mean 'e 'as not grown to used to ze way eet feels. Zat doesn't mean 'e's not going to 'elp ze fuckers who work for zat cocksucking asshole, god. And zat doesn't mean we're not going to get out of 'ere, all of us. You. Me. Chase. I promise you zat."
I glower at her.
She twists out a smile.
"And I will never work for 'eaven. I will never take zere side in zis stupid battle. I will never fight for zem."
She pats me on the arm.
XXX
We head up the stairs and get to the seventh floor. Home. Yay.
"What 'ave you been up to?" I ask her. "In zese past ten years. . . 'ave your powers . . . "
She looks triumphant. "Oh, yeah, I guess you wouldn't know how to use yours, would you. Hahhah. Sucks for you. I can do so much cool shit with mine. Can't escape, though. This collar is made of sky-metal and restricts me pretty well. Still pretty fucking awesome the stuff I can do. I can like, start fires, and heal, and make there really cool swords-"
"I can shovel dirt."
She pokes me in the ribs triumphantly.
"What have you been doing?"
"I've become a mercenary." I smile to myself.
She lifts her eyebrows. I give her a short job description as we head down the hallway.
"How'd you get caught, anyway?"
"Zis asshole, ze son of Satan-"
I explain the Damien think to her, leaving out information about the Hellspawn in South Park and anything identifying.
"Holy shit," she says, and then she leads me into my old bedroom.
My breath catches at the sight. It's exactly the way I left it. The posters of a TV show I'd watched in France as a kid, little trinkets they let me buy, the white-and-black checked bedspread, and wide windows.
They've barely touched my room since I left.
The person sitting on my old bed has changed more drastically than anything else. He's tall, almost a foot and a half taller than me, and solid muscle. His skin is creamy coffee-colored, his hair like frizzy wires drilled into his skull. His muscles bulge.
Chase looks nothing like the chubby, tiny little boy he was ten years ago. But his expression breaks into a smile when he sees me, and he jumps forward, wrapping his arms around me.
"Moron." He sobs and hugs me, strong enough to lift me up and wrap into a bear hug. He drags Maria in so it's a group hug, pressing as all together and his tears wetting our clothes. He's still a physical contact whore.
He doesn't ask me the same questions as Maria. He just pulls me down onto my bed and hugs me. Maria joins him. They feel like my long-lost family, really, holding me until we all fall asleep, just like the old days. And as much as I am loathe to admit it, I am home.
XXX
The next day she wakes me up (fucking morning person) and hauls my ass down to the cafeteria. I'm surprised there's no guard to escort her. Back when we were kids, they always had to have someone with us to make sure we followed their 'routine.'
"They'll have someone show us around if we're doing something special that day," she says in response to my raised eyebrows. She lifts the lid of the first tin of the breakfast buffet, revealing bacon. Oh, fuck, I'm so hungry.
"But since you're here, I think they just want you to get used to being back in Yardale again."
"Fuck zem."
I grab a plate and start to shovel sausages on it. I eat one while I wait in line for the low Heavenfilth soldiers and the angels in front of us to hurry up.
"Christophe!" she scolds.
"I 'aven't eaten real food in days," I mumble around a second sausage. "Zey tried ze whole 'starve you until you cannot fight back anymore' technique."
"Dios, I hate it when they do that one."
"Even so, I can cook better zan zis."
"You cook?" she asks, which makes me flush bright red.
"Maybe," I mutter.
She jeers at me as we pile food on our plates. Hash browns. Slices of apples and bananas. French toast, sticky with syrup. Mugs of coffee await us at the end. And when I spot a low Heavenfilth smoking, I manage to wheedle a cigarette out of him. That would never have worked when we would kids (I'd probably have to suck him off back then). But one glance at my smirking, demanding expression and he gives me the cigarette without complaint.
"What was up wizth zat?" I demand as we search for the table farthest away from the angels and the low Heavenfilth.
"I told you, Gregory's influence has helped us a lot." She pulls out a chair at the table in the corner and plops down. I slide my tray onto the table. Oh, fuck, it smells so good. I dig in as fast as I can.
"Plus, you know, we actually have the magical powers of High Heavenfilth now, even if they're restrained."
"You do."
"You will."
I glower at her. "No, I won't," I mumble around my food.
"Why don't you want to learn to use your powers? They're pretty damn useful, you know."
"If I can use magic," I mutter, "eet's just anozzere reason for zem to try and control me."
She sighs. "Goddamn it, Christophe, it's useful."
"I do not care."
She picks at her food.
"I do want my shovel back, zough," I add.
"You use magic in your shovel," she points out.
"Eet's not ze same."
"I know." She sighs again. She never did it so much when we were kids. "They want me to help you train anyway. After breakfast."
"Fine." I smirk. "But do not expect me to jump zrough zeir fucking 'oops."
Chase joins us, dropping his tray onto the table and sitting next to me. He scoots up close enough to me to throw an arm around my shoulder as he eats.
"I didn't really see your face last night," he says, and gives a slight, sad smile.
I run my fingers through his super-curly hair, even though I have to reach up to do so. He's so warm, like a space heater.
It's because of him my face isn't hideously scarred. I never really did thank him for that. Of course, I happened to be holding God hostage at the time I realized what he'd done, so he might excuse my lack of thanks.
I tell him thank you now, and he smiles and hugs me, and it's almost normal (only our sickening, twisted version of normal).
XXX
WHAM!
"Sheeet!"
WHAM!
The fist catches me in the gut. I double over, gagging out, "sheeeet! Sheeet!"
She plants a kick on my chest. I topple to the ground, flop my arms and legs out.
"All right," I say wearily. "I admit defeat."
"Nice try."
Maria drags me up to my feet, smirking.
"You've already kicked my ass-"
She hooks an elbow around my neck and throws me to the ground yet again, sinking back again.
"Get up!"
"Fuck! No!"
"Come on, Christophe, you said you were fine without using magic."
"Fuck! You are not even using any magic right now!"
"Yeah," she says, smirking. "I'm kicking your butt through sheer badassery."
I tilt my head back and stay. She plops down next to me. We both stare up at the sky above us. A huge chain-link fence surrounds us, giving us about a 100X100 foot area to fight. Dry, dead October grass brushes against my back, prickling my shoulders, exposed by my uniform tank top. At least out of South Park the weather knows what the fuck it's doing. Several guards stand at the doorway to the training grounds.
Maria rolls over so she's looking at me. "You need to learn to fight better," she says. Like me, she's wearing the uniform outfit, which I haven't seen her in since my return. She's still fitted with one a size too large for her.
"I fight fine. Just give me a fucking shovel."
"So you still fight with it a lot?"
"You 'ave no idea." I smirk at her.
She grins, rises to her feet, and offers me a hand. I take it, and she drags me up. Then she punches me in the face and I stumble back.
"God fucking damn it! You fucking beetch!"
She laughs, which I do not find amusing, as I'm pretty sure she broke my nose. Gentleman aren't supposed to hit ladies, but a) Maria's not a lady, she's a maniac b) I'm an equal-opportunity mercenary and c) I'm not a fucking gentleman.
"Beetch!"
I try to whack her again, but she grabs my wrist and throws me back to the ground.
"Goddamn it," I sigh. She offers me another hand, but I refuse to get back up.
"Wimp."
"Freak."
"Jackass."
"Beetch."
"Asshole."
"You 'ave anger-management issues."
"I do not!"
She fumes for a little bit before sitting next to me again.
"Seriously," I say. "If I 'ad my shovel, I would have destroyed you."
"Sure," she says.
"I am serious. Do you know where eet ees? My shovel?"
She stares at me. "Can't you just get another one?"
". . . I don't want another one."
"What is it, your boyfriend slash girlfriend slash whatever the fuck you're into? Or something?"
"Yes, Maria. I'm dating my fucking shovel. Zis makes complete sense."
She rolls her eyes. A few seconds pass.
"So." She tips her head back. I hear her voice, even though I'm not staring at her, I'm staring at the pretty little clouds above me.
"You have a significant other, or something?"
"Maria." I sigh. "I 'ave been on ze run for ten years."
"Come on," she wheedles.
"Why do you care?"
"I was just wondering – Gregory-"
"I do not fucking trust Gregory," I snarl.
She's quiet for a while.
"What about you?" I ask after a few seconds.
"I've had even less social interaction than you, and up until a few years ago I was raped and beaten whenever I bitched someone out for forcing me to kill people. It's not exactly conducive to relationships."
"Fuck."
We're both quiet.
"You need to learn to fight better," she says.
"I know."
"And to use magic."
"Fuck. No."
"It'll help."
"No."
"Come on."
"No."
"It-"
"I do not see why you are so eager to 'elp out ze Yardale school when all zey 'ave been doing is torturing you for ze past ten years."
"Because we're stuck here," she mutters. "And frankly, Christophe, the other side isn't great either. I've seen demons slaughter people. I've been one of the people stopping them from slaughtering those same people. Maybe Heaven winning this war won't be so bad. Sure, they fuck us over, but everyone else turns out okay."
"I still nevairre signed up to be one of ze people who was fucked over."
"None of us signed up for this stupid war," she snaps, "but we're fighting it anyway and we have to chose a side."
"We don't have to choose a side." I stand up and start to walk to the gate entrance. My muscles groan in protest. Forget tomorrow: I'm already fucking sore right now.
"Eet's called being independent. Eet's called not choosing just because someone tells you zat you 'ave to. Eet's called being free. And I will not fight for 'eaven."
I rattle the chain link fence. One of the guards opens it up and lets me out. He reeks of Heaven; all the guards do.
"Take me back to the school," I growl in order. I hear Maria doing push-ups behind us as they lead me up to the brick-and-metal building I call my hell and my home.
XXX
They tell me to make myself scarce as soon as we get through the doorways. I immediately go down to the basement.
"I want to see Damien," I tell the Heavenfilth serving at the pseudo-receptionist working behind the table in the bottom floor of the Yardale School.
She/he (it's an angel, so difficult to tell) looks skeptical, but orders a guard to follow me back into the prison.
It's rank as soon as I step into the cells. It smells like human sweat, excrement, and blood. The light is dim. The cells are barely large enough for most of the victims to stretch out. They all stare at me with dull eyes as I move down the aisles. My guard follows me, trailing a half-dozen feet behind.
At least not all the cells are full. My stomach still twists.
Damien's cell is near the end. My hands clench into fists when I see him.
He's in a pair of ragged jeans and nothing more. Stitches run over his neck, fraying at the seam as if they ripped off his head again. Bruises dots his exposed flesh. I wonder if the scripture makes him heal slower. He looks like he hasn't eaten in approximately forever.
His right hand is cuffed to the wall. He slouches on the ground, back against metal. His gaze flickers up when he hears my footsteps.
"Glad to see you're doing better," he mutters.
I shrug. "I am alive," I answer.
They must have beaten him again; trying to force some answers out of him. The fucking bastard won't give in. How the hell have they managed to hurt him so much in a day?
"Ees Butters all right?"
"I don't know," he rasps out. "They dragged him off a couple hours ago. He was doing better than when he was on the plane, though."
I stand in awkward silence for a few seconds.
Then I turn to my guard. "Cannot I get 'im out?" I demand.
"Uh . . . no," he says in a bored voice. "That's the whole point of us locking him in there in the first place. So he can't get out."
"Ees zere anyone zat I can talk to zat will convince me to let 'im out?"
Eventually, I ending up bargaining with one of the leading six angels about letting Damien come up to my room and get out of his cell. S/he took sadistic pleasure in telling me the next day I would be attending forced magic lessons.
One of the main conditions (there are about three dozen, actually) is that I'm with Damien at all times. Another is that the scripture-whispering-freaky-collar stays around his neck, again, at all times.
Damien is silent.
I sit on my bed, and he sits in the corner of my room. His eyes are ringed with red.
"Thanks," he mutters.
"We are working togezerre. We are friends now." I give him a wry smile. "Ze least I can do is get your sorry ass out of a shithole every now and zen."
He shakes his head. "They'll just drag me back there."
I've never seen him like this before: so depressed, so uncaring. I stand up and stomp over to him, although my bare feet make it much less impressive.
"Deedn't you tell me to snap out of eet?" I snarl angrily. "Don't start acting like a pussy now."
He sighs. His ratted dark hair falls into his eyes. He needs a shower. "Look, Christophe, ever since they captured me, like, eight days ago, I haven't eaten, I've had my head ripped off several times, I've been tortured, I've sucked off three different guys to convince them to bring me cigarettes – I really fucking need one right now, by the way – and my dad still hasn't done anything about it. He probably knows exactly what happened to me, to, he's just making me go through all this shit to build character or something."
I crouch down next to him and say mildly, "Your dad ees a huge beetch. I've met 'im."
"I know." He closes his eyes.
"What's zis?" I tease softly. "Ze prince of darkness showing me weakness?"
"Eh," he mutters. "I don't feel very princely right now. No antichrist should be reduced to giving blowjobs for cigarettes."
I pull a cigarette from my pocket. "You can 'ave zis one for free."
He lights it with his finger, sweat beading on his forehead from the effort. He places the cigarette on his lips and takes long inhale. He exhales, and smoke puffs out around him. He sighs.
"No more self-pity." I help him to his feet. "We've all 'ad to do 'orrible zings to survive. I will see if I can get you some food soon. But for now." I lower my voice. "We 'ave to start planning our escape."
"Cameras," he mutters under his breath.
"Zey're in each corner." I motion to each one with a flick of my head. They're designed to look like air conditioners.
"We'll rip 'em out when I say go. I bet it'll take them at least eight minutes to get here and take us down."
Damien's guard is probably standing outside my room, and they can just radio him and tell him what's going on. I hesitate.
. . . it probably would buy us a few minutes to talk, even if it means-
"Zey'll take you back to your cell," I whisper.
"No, they won't." He smirks. "I've got a plan."
"Fine."
"Go."
I lunge to the right side of the room and stand on the bed to reach the ceiling. My fist crashes through the fake air conditioner. I hiss in pain as shards of metal graze my skin, but my teeth grit down and I yank out wires. Then I jog to a second corner and have to jump to reach the ceiling.
By the time I've finished, Damien's also managed to deal with his cameras. We sit on my bed. My adrenaline pumps, my heart rate picking up.
"Any plans?" he asks. "Do you have allies here?"
"Zere were zree ozzere children who survived becoming 'igh 'eavenfilth. One of zem is ze guy named Gregory, the blond kid who captured ze two of us in ze first place. We aren't on ze best of terms. 'e 'unted me down for nine years. Ze ozzere two are named Chase and Maria. We were all best of friends back when we were kids. I zink Chase and Maria want to escape, but zey are too afraid right now."
"Gregory is one of the High Heavenfilth, right? The way I figured it, the angels have you guys under lock and key. Why does he get so much freedom?"
"Because 'e ees very, very good at being ruthzless," I say grimly. "'e sort of does zeir dirty work for zem, and 'e 'as since 'e was a kid when 'e first started chasing after me."
He's quiet for a second, thinking. "Does he still care about you? As friends?"
The question catches me off guard, but I don't have enough time to ask him to reason out his question for me. "I believe so." The words almost hurt to say. "Ze main reason 'e ees 'elping ze angels and God so much ees because zey will do 'orrible zings to Chase and Maria if 'e does not. And when we were talking, 'e seemed to still care about . . . me."
"Okay." Damien rubs his temples. "Currently, we're hoping the High Hellspawn back in the South Park – Stan, Kyle, Kenny, Cartman – will come help us, or their friend Butters, at least. Pip might come as well. He knows you and I were captured by now, probably, and he'll do a lot to help me. I'm his friend." He smiles, sardonic. "He'll probably tell Stan's gang pretty much everything he knows, and I wouldn't put it past them to figure out where the Yardale school is. Crazier shit has happened in South Park. They'll probably make it out here to help us."
"We've got zese damn collars on, zough, and if we don't 'ave a methzod of getting zem off, if Stan's gang and Pip try to rescue us zey'll be captured too, just like Butters."
"You did it when you were seven, didn't you?"
"Zose circumstances are not somezthing we could replicate."
He doesn't ask. "What I think we have to do is try to get on Gregory's good side."
I narrow my eyes.
"Gregory's got a ton of power – I could tell when he captured us – and he's afraid to use it. He's also got a lot of command. If we could convince him the only way to make sure all four of you are safe, then he would probably be willing to use it."
"I tried to do zat when we were seven."
"Maybe he's changed."
"Yes. 'E's become a slave to ze Yardale School. Now 'e definitely won't 'elp us."
"Stop it, Frenchie," he snaps. I open my mouth to argue, but he glowers at me to shut it.
As much as I hate being cut off, it's refreshing to see the old Damien.
"We don't have time to argue," he says. "I'm just saying, getting Gregory to come around is our best bet. Then we'll be able to get the collars off, and then when Stan's gang gets here they'll be able to get us out, if Gregory already hasn't figured that one out."
"What about your fazzere?"
"My dad's an asshole," he spits out. "He won't help me. He'll probably just think, 'oh, my stupid son got himself into this mess,' and leave me to rot. He really has no idea how to be a parent."
"Zey're going to try to use you to bargain witzh him."
"Yeah, it's not going to work. He won't give up this stupid war they're about to start."
"'Stupid' war." I eye him. "So, you agree witzh me. Zis fight ees stupid. We shouldn't pick sides."
He shrugs. "I guess."
"Well, you're ze only one I know who agrees witzh me, so zank you for zat."
He shakes his head, smiling slight, his matted dark hair falling into his eyes. The bed squeaks as he shifts position.
"Any ideas for working on Gregory?"
I shake my head.
"We have to make this situation unbearable for him," he says finally. "Currently, he's sticking with the status quo because it doesn't suck so much that he needs out. We need to change that."
"I don't want to 'urt ze cocksucker," I say. "I just wish 'e would 'ave stopped 'unting me years ago." I think about my statement. "Actually, I do want to punch 'im. But I don't want to 'urt him in a way zat would be worse zan what ze Yardale School does."
"What's the worse part of his life here?" Damien asks, ignoring my concerns.
I glare at him, but it's been five minutes since we smashed the cameras. We still don't have time to argue. Asshole.
"Probably ze Grayson lady," I mutter finally.
He raises his eyebrows.
"She 'as always 'ad . . . an interest in 'im. Even back when 'e was a little boy. I don't know if she ees still doing ze same zings to 'im. If she ees, then we might be able . . ." My voice trails off when I hear the pounding on the door.
"Fuck," Damien mutters. He grinds his burnt-out cigarette into the carpet with his bare heel. As much I hate to admit it, he can be pretty fucking badass sometimes.
"They figured out we smashed the cameras. Okay, time to put my plan into action. Christophe, you have to trust me and go along with whatever I do."
"What?"
"Please!"
"Eh . . . "
"Let us in, you motherfuckers!" one of the soldiers outside snarls. "Let us in and we won't set you in the Fridge for more than a week."
"If you zink eet will get us out of being punished," I say, my words slurring together from anxiety. Have I mentioned I hate the Fridge?
He sucks in a deep breath and grabs the hem of my tank top, ripping it over my head and leaving me naked from the waist up.
"What are you-"
"Just trust me, Christophe."
"You are an asshole, which you 'ave proven to me several times."
"I know, I know, but just trust me." He pushes me back onto the bed until I lay on my back. I raise my eyebrows when he moves forward to straddle me.
"What ze fuck do you zink you're doing-"
He bends over and kisses me. My eyes freeze open as I feel his lips against mine.
"Just trust me," he mutters, and then goes back to kissing me.
I see his plan, although I want to kill him for it. I sigh inwardly and kiss him back. I don't particularly hate kissing. I've kissed boys and girls in the last few years, randomly, sometimes as part of my job and sometimes because I was curious. It feels almost pleasant sometimes, like reassurance. To me it means I am here for you and I trust you, which is not how I feel about Damien, but it's not like I hate the skin on skin contact. I might not be into sex at all, but I'm not aromantic.
I feel him wriggling his jeans off his skinny hips, so he's left in his boxers. I shift my sweatpants halfway off my waist with my free hands. He uses what little magic available to him to give off heat, making both of us sticky with sweat as if we'd really just spent the last ten plus minutes making out.
I hear the door smash open but I pretend to be too wrapped up in Damien to care.
"Er-" one of the guards says. Damien yanks back but stays straddling me. I open my eyes. We definitely look like we were about to have sex.
"Damien, you said you zought we'd 'ave more time," I pant out, making my voice low.
"Uh . . ." he says. We both try our best to look sheepish.
"Can you get off him?" one of the soldiers asks.
Damien's still panting heavily. He rolls off me and starts to search for his jeans on the bed. He has a hard-on, which helps our case but still mortifies me. I pull up my sweatpants to hide the fact I'm not aroused.
"Um . . ." The guards glance back and forth between each other. "We were supposed to put you in the Fridge for a couple days-" He jerks his head at me. "And we were supposed to cut off your head and plant it to the ground with a pole so it wouldn't grow back. But . . . uh . . . "
"Maybe we should ask the angels," another of the guards says.
"Cockblockers," Damien mutters. "We haven't had sex in, like, a week. It wasn't like we wanted you fucking watching us."
"Um." They glance at each other awkwardly.
They decide to take us to the angels.
That slashy goodness is my birthday present to all of you. The story is about ½ over, I think. Please review if you feel like it!