Chapter Text
It all happened so quickly.
Your home flooded with men, soldiers wielding rifles.
“No.. No! Mom!! Dad!! Please! Don’t let them take me!! Please!”
Wailing ignored, your parents fill out what remains of the contract, faces gleaming with the most joy you'd ever seen.
Weapons point at, and firmly press into your skin. One occupies the space at the base of your skull, and its metal digs further with each step taken toward the front door.
"Why are you doing this?" The pressure is alleviated for just a moment. "Please sto-!" With a swift kick to the back of the knees, you collapse.
A sob is squeezed out of your lungs upon attempts at writhing away, only for your arms and shoulders to be gripped painfully from seemingly all directions.
“She’s down.” A voice commands from behind. “Get it over with.”
A crisp 'pop' breaks through the commotion, buzzing to life with a snap of electricity. The sound inspires the ache of your gums, the quickening of breath— Searching, your eyes widen, head whipping around with a snarl as your teeth are bared.
Near your face, a soldier's hand.
Copper fills your palette as your fangs puncture past the material of his gloves, sinking into his fingers. Jolting, he retracts, cursing with a pained hiss, "Fucking bitch!"
Punched square in the face, your nose gives way with a sickening crack; head swung back from the force. It's taken as an opening to grab your chin, neck presented.
“No.. stop..” You rasp.
The heat of the device is felt well before it is placed upon you— A pronged shock collar.
With a single click of a button, all you can do is scream as your vision tunnels, fading to black.
—————————
“No! Don’t! I have told you already, I don’t know anything!”
“Lying! You’re lying, and we all know it. What’s the Company shipping?
“I don’t fucking know what they’re shipping out, I only work at the port!”
“Your bank statements are in the open, and your phone records say otherwise; it’d be a shame if word got out. Last chance. What’s being shipped?”
“..I-… I worked my ass off for that fucking money..." The man appears small as he cowers in the chair, trembling in a combination of anger and distress. His skin is littered with seeping gashes and dark bruising, one eye swollen shut as a result of spitting on the Captain. "You don’t understand. You could never understand.. Fuck you! You can go to hell, you pieces of shit!”
"We'll meet you there. Do this all over, have a little reunion, eh?"
"They're.. they're tracking my location and you'll pay!" He grits. "You will pay."
"A pitiful, useless man such as yourself is just as expendable as they come. No one's rescuing you." Price states plainly, turning toward the interrogation's observer, whose mask is just barely illuminated by the light, "Ghost, you in or out?"
"I'm in." The presence stalking out of the shadows has the detainee shutting his trap. "Always."
“Good. Give ‘em hell.”
----
An emergency meeting summons a portion of the Task Force.
Countless interrogations and deployments have ultimately led up to this; everybody shuffling into the room, mood tense as they find their seats.
Laswell and Price share a look before turning to the men selected for this job: Ghost, Gaz, and Soap.
“Buckle up, boys. This is a tough one.” She begins, “We have extracted information from our most recent detainee regarding the compound we have been surveying for months. There is enough evidence to conclude that their operations aren’t as advertised.”
The CIA agent opens up the dossier laid out for the men to see, beginning on the first page.
“Intel confirms irregular shipments and readings, all in connection with this facility. They operate under the guise of being a medical sector for a private insurance company, BIOSCO.” She flips to the next, “There are links to disappearances of children around the globe. We estimate that number to be over 200. Another trafficking ring.”
With a pause, pages are skimmed through before one is settled on— one of many missing child reports. "The age of children selected range from five to twelve years old. This company has been in operation for over a decade, don't know how it wasn't flagged any sooner."
The front cover is pointed at; its photo blank. “This report belonged to their first successful subject: The running man’s favorite.”
Slid toward them, it's passed amongst each other, turns taken studying it.
“Children used as subjects. Hold on, let me get this straight.. Fucking science experiments?” Gaz questions in disbelief, glancing down at the sheet and back up at her. “Don’t tell me they’re..”
“Yes.” Laswell sighs, “The individuals being smuggled and sold are the weapons we have been searching for. The company has been plucking children off the streets and from their homes: orphans, victims of abuse. Those who would not be missed. Paid parents, relatives, schools, and hospitals handsomely in hush money.”
Soap holds his head in his hands. Gaz stares wearily at the file, eyebrows furrowed in disgust.
They’ve seen messed-up shit.
The difference is that they signed up for this and had been trained to endure torture. Desensitized through rigorous training. Children, hell, civilians, aren’t.
Human trafficking is nothing new. It’s the hard truth. The gritty, ugly side of the world that they witness each day, and in times of warfare, they go hand-in-hand; so do the measures to counteract these acts of terror.
The 141 is not a great group of people to begin with— The team called in to clean up messes, no matter how grand, and they’ve all done terrible things; taking whatever leverage becomes available in dire situations, because around every corner, something sinister awaits, but this is exactly that, and more.
Uncharted territory.
And that alone fills them with unease.
Price clears his throat, taking over. “The detainee made claims that many children have perished due to the harsh conditions; only the strongest have survived, including this one. Disappeared with no trace, until now.” He flips the file over to reveal a sketch drawn from eyewitness reports of what you vaguely look like, now, years well into adulthood. “The target is reported to be highly dangerous. Y/N, L/N has over 30 confirmed kills during her time with the company.”
Glancing around the room, he maintains eye contact with each soldier. “Her capability is largely attributed to the mutations and defects she was born with. We couldn’t get the specifications.”
"We'll continue gathering information over the next couple of days, but I'm certain on this." Laswell steps in, “She's a key to bringing this all down—We need her alive.”
---------------
The cool air awakens you.
Greeted by the sterile and overpowering stench of chemicals, you groan in discomfort at the ache pounding behind your eyes, which creak open.
Your ears flatten with a wince at the blinding headlight above. Shivers cruelly wrack your nude body, and any attempt at curling into yourself for warmth is to no avail, as all the movement produces a creak.
Straps have been fastened around your wrists and ankles. The material bites into your skin, further irritating the raw skin as you wiggle your fingers and toes, which have grown numb.
Wearily lifting your head, you glance to the left, gaze falling on the radio resting on the table.
No.
You suck in a breath.
This room is a reminder of the humanity stripped away from your very person. The scars that litter your body due to rounds of experimentation and punishment.
A reminder, as is the collar snugly secured around your neck.
Forcibly ripped from your home and family, you’ve been held in the Facility since the age of ten.
“The perfect candidate.” The Doctor titled you. Promising your family, who were struggling to make ends meet, great financial reward in exchange for you, no questions asked.
They didn’t hesitate.
The lock of the door clicks, and you jump.
An older woman peeks into the room, the head nurse.
Sighing heavily, she pushes the creaky door, rolling in a tray of surgical instruments, supplies, IV bags, and a log sheet.
The woman has tended to you countless times, in the best or worst of states, wearing poorly disguised revulsion. She remains professional, as always, skillfully setting the IV bag on its stand, preparing the line, and applying a tourniquet to your trembling arm.
A pretreatment. This is going to be a bad one.
Needle inserted, the extension tubing is attached, and soon enough, you're hooked up. Upon completion, she makes quick work of assessing your blood pressure and heart rate, scribbling it all down before departing; gone as quickly as she came in.
Just minutes later, the door opens.
He strolls in, corners of his mouth tugging upward as his eyes land on you. Clicking his tongue, he shakes his head.
“You have done it this time.”
A recording device is pulled from his coat pocket and set onto the tray, turned on with a click.
The hairs on the back of your neck stand, ears remaining flattened as your tail tucks between your legs as he strides closer. You back further into the table you're restrained to.
Swiftly turning to face the device, he speaks loudly, “Friday, August 23rd: I, Doctor Ivan Mikhail, have Subject 27 here today who fell out of line, having gone 153 days without incident. We will condition the behavior right out,” He glances at you, flicking the radio on. “won’t we?”
The room floods with static.
Who are you? You’re safe. Purpose. Affirm. Obey.
“You don’t have to worry, sweet кошка.” The cadence of his voice makes the fingers tenderly running through your hair and behind your ears, all the more nauseating. "You've just gotten yourself into trouble again.. Poor thing."
A gentle kiss is placed onto the palm of his hand, which is then followed by the nuzzling of your cheek; an attempt at appeasing him.
He smiles— It doesn't reach his eyes.
A fist full of hair is seized, roots pulled out with it.
Purpose. Safe. Obey. Poor thing.
Easy. Purpose. Affirm. Safe. Who are you?
Sharply gasping at the sting, you're hauled to meet his gaze. “What you did was unacceptable. You hurt one of my best... He had to be resuscitated.” His breath tickles your face with a puff of air, eyes widening, “I do not take that lightly.”
The hold is released, and your head collides with the table.
"You look stunning, covered in blood. However," A strap is secured across your forehead, fixing it into place to stare up at the warehouse’s dingy, moldy ceiling. "-he was not a threat. You never attack unless given orders. You know this. But even well-trained pets have mishaps, isn't that right?"
He steps out of view. Your ears perk at the snap of gloves, the rummaging of tools, all while he is humming in anticipation.
Unnacceptable. What are you? Who are you? You’re safe. Purpose. Affirm. Obey.
The Doctor returns, mockingly waving a scalpel in front of your face. The dull edge is run along your cheek, past the collar adorning your neck, all the way down to your thigh.
Eyes welling with tears, you rapidly blink to contain them.
Who are you? Safe. Obey. Affirm. What are you?
He clicks his tongue, “Моя любовь..” winding his arm back to build momentum, bringing it down harshly to stab once, twisting the scalpel into your flesh.
Your entire face scrunches up as you bite down on your tongue. Copper fills your mouth as you struggle to swallow down a sob.
The motion repeats 2,3,4,5 times, growing deeper. Your stoic act dissolves, writhing and moaning as the searing pain radiates from your thigh, up your spine.
Ivan leans in, free hand firmly pushing your eyelids apart to check your pupils; they’ve narrowed into slits.
He smiles knowingly, dragging the scalpel out of the wound. “Subject 27 is responding accordingly to stimuli. I will continue further.”
Purpose. Obey. Poor thing.
Blood pools where you lie. Stars dance in your vision, head spinning while having trouble catching your breath, absentmindedly muttering apologies.
He steps away, and the distinct clink of his favoured surgical tool echoes as it’s pulled off the tray.
"No giving up on me yet... Aw, you'll be good, won't you?"
Who are you? You’re safe. Purpose. Affirm. Obey.
Beginnings of a response die on your tongue, eyes rolling back, fluttering shut.
Retractor pulling the large wound taut, the layers of muscle separate with a squelch, exposing your femur.
Brought back in a flash, shrieks expel from deep in your gut, burning your throat as it rips through you. The wailing escaping is inhuman.
Purpose. Safe. Obey. Poor thing.
Poor thing. Who are you?
Claws protract painfully from your fingertips, and the table’s metal surface screeches under them, sounding just as agonised. Attempting to scramble away and out of the restraints, the areas in contact with the rough material begin to bleed.
“That's what I want to see. Remember this anger, this fear. Remember your training, your place!” He shouts, nearing your face, “All you have to do is obey. Do you understand?!”
Who are you? Easy. Obey.
The shock collar remote is turned up to the highest voltage, held up to be seen.
You’re heaving, gulping for air as the movements slow. You struggle to speak coherently, not remotely hearing the question.
Everything is becoming too much to bear.
Purpose.
Easy. You're safe.
Who are you?
The collar is clicked on.
Noiselessly, you seize, muscles contracting as electricity surges through your body. Ringing fills your ears.
Once satisfied, he shuts it off. Leaned back in, the remote is forced back into view, waved in your face— A warning.
Purpose. Who are you? Safe. Obey.
“Don’t forget what you are; what your purpose is. It’s easy, it comes naturally.. You’re safe with me. Who do you obey?” He whispers, merely inches from your face, smirking at the distant expression.
Your brain is mush, leaking out of your ears as the white noise consumes you. The words reverberate in your head, rattling your skull.
What are you? Purpose.
Your vision tunnels, breathing, and heart rate slow. The ringing is unrelenting, deafening.
Who are you? You’re safe. Purpose. Affirm. Obey.
Your eyes glaze over.
“There she is. моя сладкая.”