CONTENT WARNINGS:
this fic will contain NSFW content such as violence, gore, (mild) torture, body horror, PTSD and other psychological related issues.
fic info:
this is a devil's nest gang centric fic, focusing primarily on their origins, relationships and with a bit of canon divergence toward the end because you're not my real parents and i can do what i want. i've been meaning to get around to writing this dang fic for almost a decade, now, and finally decided that if i don't just start it already, i'll never get anywhere with it.
this fic is going to be partially planned and partially me winging it, so please bear with me as updates will be a bit sporadic. with all that out of the way, thank you so much for clicking into this self indulgent clusterfuck of emotions i have for this found family of idiots, and i hope you enjoy!
originally posted to Ao3 on December 17th, 2019
Voices.
Words, indistinguishable, whispering through darkness.
That's the first thing he's aware of.
Faded. Muddy. There's sand on his face, he can feel the grain scrape between his cheek and a thumb. His eye opens. Pulled open. There's light. Blinding light, and shadowed figures above.
Everything's heavy. He can't move. Everything's cold except for his side. It's burning. Fire. Is he on fire? What the hell hit him?
This fucking war. ...this fucking war.
"Ch… ris?"
God, his own voice has claws. The breath rakes through his throat and bubbles as it touches his tongue. He chokes on it.
Sound pulls away, swallowed in a vacuum of black.
Silence.
…
Silence.
…
A force hits the back of his head, jolting him back to awareness. The voices are back. His eyes open, but this time, he opens them. Everything's blurry. Blue… gray. Metal. Cold. There's movement on his right, and he rotates his head.
A white figure. Details, smudged, as though he'd been spinning in circles to purposely dizzy himself. Couldn't make out a face. He's still too heavy to move.
...no… no, that's not right.
He watches his own fingers curl into a fist. He lets them fall open again. He tries to pull it to him, but his arm catches. Leather digs into his skin, and the fine grains of sand beneath it scrape the surface like knives. The pain fades, small in comparison to whatever's boiling against his side.
"...wh...ere…?"
It still hurts to talk. He's aware of something leaking out of his mouth. It's hot. Sticky. The figure moves away from him. His eyes follow after it, gaze fixing on another passing in white. This one's pulling an animal. It's large, dark. Growling and feral. He sees a flash of white and pink. Teeth.
Pressure guides his head to stare ahead, and there's another figure leaning over him. Everything's still murky, but he can make out large, round, glowing eyes. …-no. Glasses… reflecting light. Their face is covered with a white mask. He tries to blink-to focus his eyes. Something sharp presses against his temple and burrows into the bone. His eye twitches and a breath forces itself from his lungs.
The colors bleed into each other. White to gray, gray to slate. Shapes lose themselves. Somewhere, dogs are barking. He can hear voices behind and around him, muttering, chuckling, the clatter of metal.
What the fuck is going on?
What the fuck is this?
Where is he?
Is this a nightmare?
Is he dead?
Is this death?
The broiling pain, at first all-encompassing, begins to fade. Terror creeps in a slow, pooling chill that starts in his stomach and leaks into his veins. His breath gets shallow. All of his senses are waking up. But they're too late.
"Event one."
They're the first clear words he's heard. A deafening click erupts and echos through the chamber.
And the pain. The pain is immediate. White. And hot.
Blue, gray, slate, it's all gone. It's just red. Red, white, electric, and searing, tearing into him like a savage, starving animal. His body somehow weightless yet folding all at once. He can hear himself screaming, and he's not the only one. The dogs are screaming, too. Their voices a cacophony of strangled howls, splitting cries, swelling louder and louder and louder in his head until he can feel the squall twisting under every inch of his skin.
His body convulses. The violent force snaps his head back. He drops, never aware that his spine had curled upward, and his hands had twisted, dug, and peeled their nails through the metal and left a trail of white and crimson. Somehow, he's breathing. Black oozes from the corners of his vision as a figure steps into view.
They lean over him. A hand lifts, finger hooking the white mask and pulling it down to their chin. He sees a flash of teeth. One of them glistens despite the engulfing darkness.
"Aren't you a stubborn one? Just the stroke of luck we were hoping for."
The voice comes murky, as though spoken below water. He can hear the figure chuckle.
Dolcetto tries to speak, but the world is slipping away. He's sinking. The black closes around him, and the figure's last words are little more than a whisper in his consciousness.
"So glad to have you, 156."