Now that the rod has reached about the half way point of its journey from where it started to the shackled man, it begins to drop. At first the minor descent of the objects altitude suggests to the man that perhaps the woman, commonly known during her ‘hero’ days as Rupture, might be struggling to maintain her grip upon the metal item with her telekinesis. That perhaps its drop in altitude is a sign of fatigue. That however, is a notion which is quickly dispelled as the rod again continues, clearly deliberately, to sink lower and lower. It continues onward, the gap between it and the man narrowing, until finally its descent stops and holds altitude at a position a little above his waistline.
The man, who had already been gravely concerned, now feels nothing but abject terror fill every inch of his being. Whether it’s simply because of the thought of what this witch might do to him or that he himself cannot fathom what she has planned, he does not know. What he does know is that he can feel stinging across his entire back. The feeling is something he’s come to expect as beads of sweat trickle, uncomfortably, down his back. But the beads of sweat are not themselves the cause of his pain. After all, it is a sensation that many will experience throughout their lives during periods of discomfort or fear. But what the man has that the rest of us do not are the knife wounds that the drops of sweat are rushing into. They are the cause of the stinging blows of almost continuous pain he can feel.
The man still can’t fathom how it is that these same wounds have not yet begun to go septic, but they haven’t. In some ways he wishes they would have. Though, it seems unlikely that they will. If they did that would suggest his captor is some kind of amateur, and he in no way believes her to be that. He just wishes she was.
Rachel smiles broadly, while her tongue stabs out from between her lips to lap, absentmindedly, at their glossed surface hungrily. She can taste the anticipation, the fear, her joy and pleasure. They are all emotions which intensify right up unto the point where it seems the man, her focus, guesses what assault awaits him. He begins to thrash and grunt, clearly desperate to escape what will come next. His attempts are futile, but the sight of his struggles brings Rachel elation. She can feel it, taste it in the air. She loves it, thirsts for it. Nothing on this Earth fills her with the kinds of emotions that these sessions do.
Finally, the rod reaches the man and presses its cold surface up against a patch of flesh just above his waist. He squeals in response soon after, the sounds muffled by the gag in his mouth. His eyes go wider as he feels his flesh beginning to tear. Yet, he continues to thrash violently.
Rachel meanwhile, bites the tip of her tongue softly and then forces the rod forward. The man erupts into muffled roars that quickly mix with grunting sounds that would be expletives were it not for the gag. Rachel doesn’t stop. She is too focused on the rod as it disappears into the man’s skin, probing into the meat below.
Drops of red blood well to the surface in the moments before they grow too large and the force of gravity becomes too strong to stop them from being dragged down toward the ground.
The runs of red weave their way down the man’s acupuncture needle covered legs. Rachel notes that the blood contrasts not only the man’s skin but also the needles jutting from them perfectly. It’s surprising to her that she is still able to get such a perfect view through the sea of needles as the bloody trails continue to flow down his legs. They divide over and over as they run their course down to the resin covered concrete floor, creating a sight that she can only describe as being akin to a mass of thin bloody tributaries. As the thought comes to her a wave of pleasure surges through her body.
Before long she pulls back on the rod with her mind. The rod responds immediately, while the man moans again. He too can feel the foreign object retreating. In response he feels a small, tiny really; sense of relief. It lasts only seconds however before Rachel plunges the blood slick surface of the rod deeper into his body.
The reply is instantaneous as a collection of raucous muffled cries and pleas escape from around the gag. Rachel ignores them, though she acknowledges the wave of joy they send through her own body. A wave that tempts her to touch herself, but that she knows she must resist. After all, she needs her concentration because what she is doing right now is simply too good for her to stop. Her eyes hungrily stare into the man’s in a manner that anyone, if they were watching, might think means she is able to see his very soul. She can’t. What she can see however is the mixture of fear, hatred and pain in his eyes. That is what she lusts after. But she isn’t done yet. There is one more use for this rod and she knows that it’ll be the most degrading act her specimen has faced thus far.
That is why Rachel wastes no time in retracting the rod from the man, who shakes and whimpers as the foreign object finally withdraws completely. Thick droplets of blood in turn spew from the small circular hole. Only for those same droplets to trickle down his legs and join the small pools that have already formed between his feet.
The man’s head drops. He’s exhausted. He wants to die. He never thought he’d ever say that, but right now that is the only thing he wants. He doesn’t want freedom anymore. Freedom will never wipe away the things he’s seen and endured. Death on the other hand will.
Suddenly he hears a chuckle. It’s soft and sweet sounding, and for reasons he cannot give he lifts his head. He imagines the outburst is just another part to this witches torment, meant to scare him. It succeeds because he finds her stood there, a sick smile on her face taunting him.
His gaze does not linger on her long as he sees something move. Instinctively he shifts his gaze toward it and finds that, to his surprise, it is the metal rod. He imagined she’d discarded it. For what reason he came to that conclusion he cannot say, but it is the one he had reached. However, it continues to hover there, menacingly. Lower now than it was before and in the process of completing a one hundred and eighty degree flip, so that the bloody end is faced away from him. He can’t imagine the reason why the witch has done this, and hopes it isn’t part of some sick display during which his captor will lick the blood off the metallic surface. If that happens he’ll vomit, he’s convinced of it.
He doesn’t have to wait long for the answer though as the rod soon begins to float toward him again.
Almost immediately he realises what this psycho has planned for him. He begins to thrash with every fibre of his being in reply. He cannot let her do what she has planned. He refuses. He if doesn’t he will face the greatest humiliation and violation that has, until this point, never entered his head before now.
Rachel, on the other hand, can scarcely wait. It won’t be the first time she’ll have inflicted a torture such as this on a man. But it has been a good while.
Decent proportions can be difficult to come by unless you are fortunate enough to see the entire package before laying claim to them. That happens so rarely, and though this was not one of those occasions, it seems that with this specimen she has been overly lucky. It’s why she intends to keep him for as long as he can satisfy her needs. In truth, that could be years. There won’t be much left of him, body or mind, when she’s done, but the joy she’ll receive until that day might allow her to reach levels she has never before experienced in all her life.
Such a thought is dashed moments later when a near deafening scraping sound erupts, shattering the near silence of the dungeon. As a result the metal rod plummets out of the air in the seconds before it clatters to the resin polished concrete with a musical series of rings that see it bounce about for a time.
Rachel had been unable to maintain her telekinetic grip on the rod because the scraping sound had been like nails down a chalkboard to her ears.
Sounds like that have always had an amplified effect on her compared to others, which is why she is shaking and trembling as a result now. And though the sounds themselves have abated the echoes of them continue to rumble through her head for seconds after. Until finally they grow so weak that they become inaudible to the spectrum of human hearing.
It is at that point that her shudders, shakes and trembles finally dissipate, and now that they have Rachel spins on the bare heels of her feet to face the direction of the stairs that lead back up to the ground floor of the mansion her and Balthazar live in. It’s where she knows, for a fact, that the sounds originated from. It’s the only place they could have come from, and yet while she expects to see something or someone there the reality is that there is no one. She is alone, apart from her array of pets that is. She doesn’t understand. The only thing that could even possibly make that noise is the heavy metal door that seals her dungeon off from the rest of the house. Yet, it is sealed. She knows that for a fact, but at the same time is sure that the sound was real. It has to have been. Rachel can even hear her specimen, the focal point of her attention currently, breathing sighs of relief.
He won’t be relieved soon, Rachel thinks as she flicks her tongue over the tops of her teeth, where they are the roughest. Her lips tightly closed as she does so. After all, Rachel hates interruptions. Though it dawns on her that it could very well be Balthazar. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d used the door to her basement dungeon for a purpose other than for that which it is intended. The last time he’d crushed a particularly difficult business partners head open on it, just so he could prove a point to the rest of his assembled guests. He didn’t mention that anyone would be coming over today. But if there is she wouldn’t be surprised. It’s why she ultimately shrugs her shoulders and then turns her attention back to her prize, forcing a smile back across her face.
Her specimen doesn’t have to know that she’s irritated. He’ll feel that soon enough. She’ll make sure of it. And once she’s worked past the irritation a natural smile will return.
Just as she readies herself to use her powers again and lift the rod from the resin polished concrete floor, there is another scraping sound. This one lasts longer, both literally and as it bounces around in her head.
Rachel bares her teeth as her hands begin to ball, angrily, into fists. Then she does an about turn and calls out, “Balthazar, whatever you’re doing you’re fucking with my playtime!”
She waits but gets no reply, at least not a verbal one. Instead, there is a new scraping sound. It still sounds like nails down a chalkboard, but somehow it’s different and thankfully less severe. Rachel still winces in response to it, but manages to keep her focus on the stairs. That alone allows her to confirm that there is no shifting of shadows or addition of extra light. So that means I can cast aside the idea that the door is being moved in any way, she says to herself. It makes sense seeing as she always makes sure to close it so that the lock engages. However, that does nothing to help Rachel understand what’s going on. So she begins to climb the stairs. Her balance is off, slightly, as a result of the pain that is now forming in her head. The fault lies entirely with the grating sounds that have assaulted her ears. Yet, that knowledge does little to slow her swift ascent up the wooden stairs that culminate in her coming face-to-face with the flat mass of metal that is the door, and the retina scanner to the right of it.
The scanner is recessed into the wall and configured so that only her eyes grant access into or out of the basement. Even Balthazar has no dominion here. This is her little haven, underground, where she can escape from the rest of the world.
Of course, Balthazar could grant himself access, either by burning a hole through the door or one of the neighbouring walls, if he didn’t feel like taking the subtle approach that is. He knows better than to do that. Especially as the pair have no secrets. He knows what she does down here. He’s even been present on occasion.
However, Rachel sees no indication that Balthazar has in any way attempted to subvert the security and privacy of this place, her place. It’s why she considers perhaps simply doing an about turn and returning to her fun.
While she’s weighing up the idea though, a fresh batch of scraping sounds fills her ears. At the proximity she is from the door, it’s excruciating to her ears, which she covers with her hands. It’s a desperate and evidently futile attempt that results in her adding screams of agony and demands that this audio torture end. It doesn’t. Instead is doubles. Not in volume but in severity as the scraping sounds screech out in stereo now. And in a fashion that suggests two lots of nails are being dragged down a chalkboard.
To make matters worse it seems that there is now no intention of it ending. So, seeing little other choice, Rachel hurriedly aligns her left eye with the retina scanner and then waits for the scan to complete and the light to turn green. The shift in colour comes a brief time later. Then a loud clunk rings out once, over even the scraping, to indicate that the doors lock has been released. At that point the sounds stop.
Rachel doesn’t care though. She has to know what is going on. What is causing that sound. But she swears that if, this is part of some game by Balthazar then she’ll take his head off. She does have to admit that if it is her lover then it is desperately out of character for him. That is not to say that it couldn’t be. Though, at no point does she consider any other alternative while planting her left shoulder against the cool surface of the solid steel door in the moments before she begins to push.
The mammoth, vault style, door moves slowly, centimetre by centimetre, as Rachel puts all her weight behind it. Unlike Hayden, she hasn’t got incredible strength and if it were not for the recurring scraping sounds she’d use her telekinesis like she usually does. Such a risk would be foolish until the brown haired woman finds out exactly what is going on. Seeing as if she dares to use her powers there is a real possibility that she could overexert herself, which, at least in theory, could lead to the formation of a brain aneurism.
It’s a fact that was delivered to her shortly after she’d been made a God. For the failure to alert her of such a drawback before the procedure, she killed the messenger. It only seemed fair in her eyes.
Suddenly, the door comes to a halt. Rachel lets out a note of confusion loud enough to be heard in her own ears.
She knows for a fact, that the door should be able to swing much further than it has thus far managed. Yet, as she attempts to barge it with her shoulder it continues its refusal. Rachel curses, wondering if one or more of the gas cylinders have failed. The repercussions if they have will be, severe, she swears to herself.
After all, who would have imagined that a brand new, less than seventeen months old, house would have so many issues. It makes her blood boil thinking about them in the moments before all of a sudden the heavy door jolts back toward her. It happens so unexpectedly that Rachel hasn’t the time to react, and so the heavy slab of metal smashes into her face.
Rachel screams a string of expletives in response as she stumbles sideways out of the path of the doors swing and into the open living space of the ground floor of the mansion. Her hands cover her face, nursing what she fears might be a broken nose as best they can. She certainly feels blood gushing down her face from her nose. She is even able to taste it on her lips as she sniffs and waits for the pain to subside, if only a smidge.
That is, until she wonders why the door swung back toward her. There is only one way in which that is possible, so Rachel spins round. Her face twisted and angry, her brow deeply furrowed as she is met by the sight of a woman dressed entirely in black with tints of green in her otherwise long straight black hair.
“Who the fuck are you?” Rachel roars angrily. Spittle flying from her mouth as a section of her upper lip twitches uncontrollably. Her teeth are bared as if she is ready to feast upon some prey caught within a trap.
Yelena says nothing. Instead, she simply stands there, face-to-face with Rachel who shakes her head from side to side in hopes of erasing what little remains of her nearly doubled vision. It is at this point that Rachel also finally feels able to withdraw her hands from around her face to reveal the twin streams of blood that have ran down to her pointed chin.
“Answer me!?” Rachel roars, her chest rising and falling quickly over and over again. Her nostrils flaring as objects all around the pair of women begin to rise up and into the air.
Yelena still stays silent as she flicks her eyes left and right taking in the sight of the levitating objects around her. She sees no reason to say anything, yet. The time for talking will come, but it is not here yet.
Rachel however, does not agree. She thinks the time to speak has come and gone. And that she gave this woman, who in her eyes looks more like some circus reject, a chance. In fact, Rachel gave her two, which is generous for her.
But as this black haired woman has not taken the olive branch offered to her, she’ll move forward. That is why Rachel yells, “DIE!” and then hurls the objects levitating in air at the black haired woman.
Yelena in response deftly dodges, bobs and weaves left and right evading the largest and heaviest of the items flung her way. And she does so faster than should be possible. Even if many of the smaller, and in many instances sharper, objects are the ones that nick and cut Yelena’s body and face as they flash past.
“You’re like us.” Rachel exclaims almost under her breath and in disbelief.
Yet, Yelena hears Rachel’s words as quiet as they are, and that is why she shakes her head and then proclaims, “I’m nothing like you. I don’t pray on others.”
In response, Rachel erupts into a belly shaking cackle. It’s a sound from deep inside the telekinesis wielding woman, but in no way hampers her abilities, seeing as she mentally hefts a heavy sword from a display mounting on a nearby wall and then hurls it, tip first, toward her adversary seconds later.
Yelena turns too late and is forced to watch as the blade spears through her gut, only to tear her off her feet and then fling her across the room. Her jaunt only ends when the sword punches into a wall, where it becomes embedded, holding the seemingly unconscious one hundred and sixty one centimetre tall woman in the air.
Rachel roars joyously. Her laughter uncontrollable as her head is thrown back and she looks up toward the ceiling, her arms splayed wide.
When Rachel’s laughter finally subsides it twists into a wide smile plastered across her face, while shivers of pleasure flow through her body as a result of having felled this intruding aggressor. She even does a little dance, while her back turned to her victim. Or at least she does until she hears a noise that encourages her to spin around.
To her utter disbelief and astonishment she finds Yelena is stood before her, alive, and with the sword, that had moments ago impaled the black haired woman to the wall, in her hand. Rachel goes to ask how, only to get an answer to her as yet unspoken question when the wound in Yelena’s gut heals before Rachel’s very eyes.
Rachel’s jaw drops. The telekinesis wielding God has never before in her life seen a sight as remarkable as this. It’s the sort of power that dreams are made of. That any God would kill to have the chance to wield. And it’s in the possession of this circus reject of a woman before her. It’s unfair, brutally so, and Rachel abhors it. Before she can do anything though, Yelena, to Rachel’s shock, casts the sword in her hand aside. It clatters away while Rachel recoils, scarcely able to believe that this woman is foolish enough to disarm herself. That is why she assures, “You’re foolish to hope to best me unarmed. No matter your tricks. You are no match for me.”
Instead of responding Yelena simply remains in place, with her feet shoulders width apart as her fingernails suddenly begin to grow into massive black talons.
For the second time Rachel’s jaw drops. Her mouth hanging agape as she wonders how many more gifts this reject has at her disposal.
Yelena doesn’t make a move though. Instead, she watches and allows Rachel the time to collect herself and then ask, with more concern in her voice than she would like, “Who and what are you?”
Yelena smiles, but says nothing. Rather she launches herself toward Rachel. The immediacy with which Yelena goes from standing to flying at Rachel is so surprising that it catches the brown haired woman off-guard. At least it does for a couple seconds, but following that Rachel manages to gather herself and then use her telekinetic abilities to stop the talon equipped Yelena mid-flight.
The sudden shift in fortune results in a wicked smile creeping across Rachel’s face as she comments, “See, you’re no match for me. I can control anything with my mind, whether it’s made of metal, wood, flesh or bone. Nothing is beyond the grasp of my powers, you poor, pathetic wannabe Goth bitch.”
And with that Rachel screws her left hand tight, right in front of Yelena’s eyes. The action seems pointless, until that is Yelena’s spleen explodes seconds later. The black haired woman howls in reply, while Rachel cries with joy and runs her tongue along the surface of her teeth.
Unfortunately, it seems Rachel hasn’t noticed that though she has hold of Yelena, she isn’t in mid-air anymore. Yelena’s feet are now very much touching ground and as the telekinesis wielding psycho continues to cackle with reckless abandon, the black haired woman is closing the gap between them one step at a time.
Unfortunately for Yelena, Rachel does take note several steps later, and so settles on delivering another agonising punishment that sees her crush one of Yelena’s kidneys with her mind. Yelena howls and snarls in response this time. Though, she refuses to admit surrender as she continues her slow marching advance forward.
Rachel is snarling now. The pain she’s inflicting on Yelena is delicious, but more than anything she wants this intruder, this killer, dead. So she crushes her other kidney. Other than a brief scream of pain it does nothing to halt Yelena’s progress. That’s when Rachel elects to crush Yelena’s liver. But still the outcome is the same. Rachel doesn’t understand. This woman should be dead, God or not, Rachel has crushed four organs. Three of which are vital and the rupturing of them alone should have resulted in the sort of blood loss that is capable of crippling anyone, Balthazar included. Yet, somehow this woman is still coming. Surely, Rachel thinks, she cannot be healing as fast as I am popping her organs. She can’t be. The force of will that would be needed to achieve such a thing would be immeasurable.
To make matters worse, Rachel herself is near the limit of what she can achieve as a result of the protracted period during which she has used her powers, especially when you factor in the session she was engaged in down in her dungeon before this.
It’s why Rachel quickly crushes a lung. That, she thinks, should definitely do the trick.
Yelena’s howl response is strained. Almost as if it’s been choked off. Shortly after that Yelena’s breathing becomes audible and wheezing, but that is all. She simply just keeps coming. It’s why Rachel then roars fearfully, “What are you?”
It’s a fair question for Rachel to ask as she feels her own strength and determination fading fast now. Yet, she can’t give up. This is a fight to the death and Rachel has no intention of dying.
Her defiance quickly evaporates though when she realises just how close Yelena is to her now. A wave of panic washes over her. She chastises herself as soon as it does, but it’s too late the damage is done. Her focus having slipped is all Yelena needs. Yelena knows it and that is why she makes sure to quickly use her talons to tear through the white sweater over Rachel’s torso and into her chest flesh underneath.
The response from Rachel is a ragged bellow from deep in her lungs, and the pain she feels is more than she ever thought could be possible. Her only description is that it is indescribable and harrowing. And now that it’s present Rachel is incapable of banishing it. So try as she might to concentrate again she cannot and that allows Yelena to go on her assault. An assault that sees the black haired woman tear open Rachel’s chest completely. Blood being cast wide in the moments before Rachel stumbles backward.
She can’t catch and regain her balance this time, so goes slamming to the floor. At any other time she’d have used her powers to save her, but they’re gone now. Her energy spent, never to be recovered. Rachel knows this is the end as she stares up at the black haired woman, who she knows nothing about, other than she is far stronger than Rachel ever could have imagined possible for a God to be. That conclusion doesn’t change the fact that the end is near, while her chest is nothing more than a ruined and bloody mess where flesh had once been. Her ribs vaguely visible among the red gore before Yelena leans in to block the view.
Rachel doesn’t understand why until she hears something whispered in her ear. And even then the words don’t sink in at first, but once they do, she recognises the name, Shepard Head Farm, and her eyes go wide.
Yelena takes a step back soon after so that she can watch the realisation linger on Rachel’s face while what little remains of the light in her eyes fades away to evaporate into the abyss of darkness that awaits her in death.