His world slowed, down into an agonising speed, where even smoke was slow enough to study shapes it made. Those HD eyes rose, falling on the face In front of him. He felt dazed, light headed and his eyes could barely focus. Panic was ebbing away into a false sense of euphoric comfort, but even as the drug took a hold on his perception and senses, he was still very self-aware; aware he was in nothing short of a life threatening situation. If he was still sober he'd be slipping into hyperventilation right now. The Latino, still leaning between his legs, grinned at the spaced expression laced on Alex's face, and Alex was all too aware his torture this evening was only just about to start.

Above him he could hear the slowed down, low pitched echoes of laughter that probably happened about 5 seconds before it even registered with him, the other two tormentors above him seeming to take a gleeful joy in his reaction to his first ever hit of slowmo. If he was focused enough on the world right now he could officially say he didn't like it, it took every little bit of control, no matter how small, that he'd had over this situation and thrown it to the proverbial dogs; these dogs, human, slobbering, thuggish dogs. It rendered even his hopes of breaking free and running completely out of reach, because his sense of direction was shot, and even then his brain registered everything so slowly that he doubted he could move with any conviction right now. By the time he'd turned his head to scope the exit they'd be onto him. He didn't want to make this worse for himself, and right now just surviving would be a welcome break.

It didn't really occur to him they COULDN'T kill him, because of that tattoo on his neck. He was one of them, even if he was a lower one, an underdog they could smack around because he wouldn't complain, but he still belonged to this 'family' and that meant killing him was an offence, but everything else apparently wasn't, because he'd take it and not dare utter a word for fear of worse. That was the criminally unfair system of ranking, and it was a pretty poor standard of life if you found yourself at the bottom. You weren't dead though, you weren't starving on the streets. You might get beaten a bit, you might get abused, and you might have your dignity stripped, BUT life could be worse. Out there…

….In here you were fed and housed, at least. You weren't on your knees, begging or sucking for enough credits to eat a few times a week. Outside was a grim world if you had nothing, and he might not like being touched up in here, but at least he didn't have to sell himself. He'd make a poor robber, his nerve was shot, and he'd make an even worse thug. Being how he was and how he looked, out there would only leave him in the low down whore houses, and there was no protection from harm in those.

He tensed when he felt the Latino leaning harder towards him between his legs, running his hand up the side of thigh in the same manner as one might touch a woman. If he wasn't terrified he'd be sick of that already, and the slowmo in his system really dragged out the petrifying anticipation of whatever it was they were going to do with him. He was almost sick when that hand reached his pronounced hip bone, gripping it under the edge of his t shirt, thumb fitting into the front curve of his pelvis. It was almost too much to bare already, his skin was tingling from the drug in a way he'd rather it didn't in this situation. He stared back into dark brown eyes with his own unnatural ones, lower lip trembling a little as he tried to focus on him. He wasn't stupid enough to ask what he planned to do to him, so no words were exchanged. Just looks.

Slowly, and probably still about 5 seconds after it had actually happened, he realized the Latino was drawing a knife from his belt line. A small but razor sharp looking flip knife that looked like it'd gut you in one swoop. Alex's trembling increased ten-fold, a tiny squeak of a whimper escaping him, trying to push himself up a little against the back of the chair as he watched the glinting sliver of metal get lowered between himself and the Latino, between his legs. His eyes shot back up to his face when he felt the cold metal brush at the crease between his thigh and his groin. They'd wanted a girl right, but this? He wouldn't put it past them to castrate him no, but he was begging with all his spiritual might that they wouldn't.

That knife travelled along a bit, closer, ghosting across dark auburn body hair, before moving lower. The near pained expression on his face must have been satisfying to see as he held as still as the urge to squirm away would allow him, feeling the razor sharp metal shave against the skin of his balls. Inside he was in hysterics, but if he wanted to keep every bit of himself right now he had to hold still and obey the rules. This wasn't their plan, this was just intimidation, playing with him to get him to comply with other demands when they made them. This was more of a 'if you don't be a good boy, this is what will happen to you' statement. He nodded vaguely in understanding when the knife stopped moving, a sort of indication he'd comply with the ground rules here, and that got the knife taken away from his unmentionables.

Thank fuck. Oh thank fuck!

But then, here came the demands. The hand not holding the knife came up, brushed back more of his unwashed red hair, before trailing down his cheek, onto his jaw line. Foul, every one of these guys, humanities lowest and here he was stuck in a room of them. He really hoped his mother wasn't looking down from the heavens on this, what he'd been reduced too. He'd just go along and sleep it off like he'd done a few times before, eventually he'd block it out and maybe it wouldn't happen again, maybe. He told himself that after every beating, but it had rarely gone much further than a rough up. Here it was going way beyond just a rough up. He lowered his eyes when the touch trailed down his jaw and down his throat onto his collar bone, before it gripped the shirt he wore and tugged it roughly up over his head, the other two forcing him to lift his arms and before he could really make any daring move to protest his shirt was off and abandoned to the floor.

Now he really had nothing going for him, dignity wise. No shirt, and his Jeans around his ankles, and that touch was trailing down from his collar bone now, down his chest in the centre and onto his stomach. He was being felt up, 'admired' even and it was all so AGONIZINGLY SLOW! He squirmed more, but they didn't seem to mind his squirming now. A few seconds later he felt his jeans being pulled off his feet, discarded with his t shirt, and his slip on shoes being pulled off, leaving him in nothing but his socks. The shame rose in his skin, and sank in the pit of his stomach which was already complaining of sickness. He looked away from him finally, trying to find somewhere in the room where he didn't have to make eye contact with someone.

Next he felt that knife again, this time grazing along his collar bone, and followed by a lick. He flinched to that, now aware he was being leant over, and still unable to close his legs. That knife trailed down a little, never cutting, just scraping his skin and where it went so did that mouth. It did nothing for him, not that he thought that was why it was happening anymore. He was being used, humiliated, and he was more than aware of this no matter how slow the world around him moved. He had no idea how the other two assailants were reacting to what was happening. He didn't look. He didn't want to know. He knew he was nothing more than the afternoons entertainment to these monsters and that was all he needed to know, the rest he just had to endure and hopefully walk away with everything, testicles included, intact. He arched ever so slightly when he felt the knife circle his navel, the gentility of it feeling more like a promise of a stab before he felt the tongue dip into it. A look of discomfort streaked his face, because despite the metal being dragged on his skin, the feeling of someone's tongue slipping in and out of his belly button was actually quite pleasant.

He kept reminding himself of the situation he was in, kept telling himself everything he didn't want to hear in order for that slow wet torment a little too close to his groin not to take effect. What seemed like hours of this passed in less than a minute for him before the onslaught to his navel stopped, leaving a cold void where rejected pleasure had been. He breathed out slowly, his world still spinning under the influence of the drug, and somewhere in the distance he heard the words 'mark him first' in slow deep voices. Mark him? Before what?! He'd have struggled to find out if he could have but before his brain even registered the desire to push up his wrists were back to being held against the seat arms, small lines of red starting to appear on his skin wherever that knife had been dragged. The Latino in front of him had started to laugh a little, and Alex registered the idea that that tongue lashing to his navel had been just a little metaphorical.

His hair was gripped again and he felt the back of his skull impact the back of the chair with a soft thud, the pain in his scalp enough to daze him a second before he felt the sharp point of a needle press against his forehead. What in the bloody hell was that?! It was too close and his mind was too out of focus to connect fully with those new eyes of his. No matter what data they were sending down the line, his brain wasn't registering it in time. Why anyone would take this stuff willingly was beyond him. Then that buzzing sound pierced the air, one he was only vaguely familiar with, and a pain he was unused too followed. A sharp, aching sting to the skin of his forehead which took him about 5 seconds to jerk away from but by then it was too late, they'd already inscribed some unreadable jibberish above his right eyebrow with a tattoo gun. He couldn't see the damage but he knew well enough they'd just marred his face a little.

"Stop, please...enough."

He blurted out, slurring his words a little through heavy panting of panic, pain and distress. He'd been trying not to beg, not to fuel the sadistic pleasure they were getting out of him but tattooing his face was taking things in a very uncomfortable direction. He didn't want any more gang signs on him than he already had inked into the side of his neck, and worse: he feared it was a claim mark. Some gangs used them, bigger members putting their mark on smaller ones, bit like a prison system. That's what a gang could be if you weren't at the top. His head was swimming now with an inked in headache, coupled with the spinning the slowmo was causing. He wasn't too sure he could keep those noodles down for much longer.

Needless to say, his begging earned him no mercy.