Title: Pleading
Groping Hands; Bleeding in the Sand
Author: Spinny Roses
Fandom:
Wild Arms 3
Rating: R
Warnings: Disturbing weirdness, torture,
sexual overtones, het and yaoi implications (no, not
telling)
Spoilers: Whole game
Notes: Title and entire story is
inspired by Delerium's "Duende." Will link a very general
FAQ in user info if reviewers need it.
Disclaimer: Don't
own.
Prologue
Need to get out of here.
No! It'll be waiting. Waiting to kill me.
It hurts. Broken rib, great. Gonna impair my escape.
It'll be morning soon.
It'll be morning soon.
Go away I'm not ready stop it stop it STOP.
"Mm, just a few more hours until morning, isn't it... Jet?"
---
Two days earlier
"An' get yer dirty feet off mah table!"
With a grunt, Jet Enduro shifted his boots off the table as food and beer was plunked down in front of him. He had barely stepped foot into the bar when the barkeep had started bitching at him about everything: The color of his hair, his clothing, the state of his boots... Never mind when he ordered alcohol and the underage rant he got about that one. Good thing the cook had also been the innkeep that hired her, and told the twit to shut up and serve him.
Things had changed quite a bit in the last few months. More towns had cropped up, with the expected rail stations to take them to the harder to reach areas. There was even a bit of an ocean to speak of, with the occasional village starting up on an isolated island. Rumor had it one of the islands was one wild place to visit. It was on Jet's list of things to do before being bored to death by Gallows to visit that place. Alone.
Naturally, this was one new town. It had grown pretty quickly, all things considered. There was a rather decent sized inn, ARMs master, several small houses... and it was completely useless. No one knew anything. Jet gave a quick thought to his other teammates, split up over other locations to maximize information gathering. They better be doing better than he was. That sounded like one hell of a treasure, if they could only find it.
"You ain't plannin' on goin' to Deadwood, are ya?" The innkeep asked, quickly cleaning a table to its former semi-sticky glory. "Boy, let me tell ya, hardier men than ya have gone in there and come back broken. It's a hell of a place, an' no one is willin' to talk about it. 'Least, not after dark."
Now that was the kind of thing Jet wanted to hear. He had seen a town to the west, and since he now knew the name and what kind of town it was... almost sounded like Little Twister. And that little shithole was perfect for finding sensitive information like this. Fuck, they had found out about it first on the black market, of course a town like Deadwood should have information on the treasure.
Eh, it was getting dark. His gelding wouldn't go five paces under a full moon, much less under the waning moon it was tonight. Best to wait and go in the morning. Besides, the inn was cheap here. No big loss.
"Ah am not lettin' that kid stay here!"
Or maybe not.
---
Come to me. Bring to me your pain, your weariness, your tears, your fears...
Allow me to feast upon your worst fears.
Come to me in hope, my dear Drifters, into my cradle of fear.
Welcome to Deadwood...