Fatigue no longer dragged at Kieran’s every step, nor did the everlasting threat of a cough tickling at the back of his throat. Sneezes didn’t plague him anymore, and he finally managed to get his sniffles under control. Everything seemed to be looking up after a good couple of weeks full of that special kind of misery only a bout of illness could bring.
Then the doors that he’d grown used to opening immediately as he approached them remained firmly shut. Adding insult to injury were the moments when these doors would actively close on him with an indignant WOOSH.
Kieran stands in front of the door to the dining hall, hands on his hips and a scowl clear on his face.
“Aw, c’mon!!! This is the second time today!” he whines… at the door. First time for everything.
“I just wanna make myself a sandwich…”
--
[FAMILIAR GROUND] – [CLOSED TO BEN, PRATT, & CARLISLE]
It’s well towards the end of the month that Kieran finds himself shut out—again—by one of those doors. Somewhere along the way, someone has explained to him (whether it be a fellow outsider to Anchor, or a cog in the system itself) that it could have something to do with his prior illness. That didn’t exactly make him feel great. Still, Kieran took it upon himself to travel around. He needed the exercise, and a life full of manual labor made sure that he’d not only grown accustomed to it, but that he actively craved it. His time holed up with that weird cold had stolen nearly chance he had to put his body to work, and he needed to do something to get back into that groove. So, he sighs and walks away from this nearest door and into a somewhat unfamiliar section of the agricultural sector.
As Kieran mindlessly walks along a corridor, he finds himself rolling up his sleeves and loosening his neckerchief. Somewhere down the line, the air has grown a bit warmer. A bit more humid. The usually sterile scents sometimes peppered with pollen from the strange trees start mixing with something a little muggier. Like a swamp. He stops in his tracks, heart pounding in his chest as realization hits.
Somehow, the path Kieran had been following has warped into the outskirts of Shady Belle.
He remembers this spot in particular. He remembers what had happened here, just outside of the camp he dared not ever leave.
Adrenaline rushes through Kieran’s veins, and he turns to run—
—only to feel someone come up from behind him, grab him roughly by the middle and cover his mouth with a large grimy hand before he can shout for help. He struggles against the grip, kicking, rolling, and thrashing harder than he did back home now that he’s absolutely positive of what’s going to happen next. His assailant doesn’t break his grip, though, and only offers a chilling laugh with every unsuccessful attempt at freedom. He never found out who had been the one to kidnap him from the Van der Linde camp back then; Colm O’Driscoll had a bad habit of corralling tough, mean men by the dozens and turnover rates were high in his gang. It looks like he’s not about to find out here, either.
His boots leave definitive notches in the dirt as he continues to fight against the vice grip holding him tight. Eventually, Kieran manages to break the gang member’s hold just long enough to take a few glorious steps towards his escape. It’s a hope short-lived, however, as another O'Driscoll grabs him by his gangly arms and throws him roughly to the ground. His jaw slams against the ground and for a moment Kieran marvels that his teeth didn’t shatter from the force alone. The marvel quickly shifts to panic as a steel-toed boot slams into his side, undoubtedly cracking ribs and leaving him completely breathless. It’s an attack that’s as practical as it is cathartic—a traitor can’t shout for help if he can’t draw breath, after all.
Kieran just barely manages to suck in some air before another kick lands, this time aimed at the pit of his stomach and with enough strength to shock his entire body. He cries out, prompting another laugh from his assailants, and his vision starts to feather at the edges. He wonders if maybe he'll slip into unconsciousness before they kill him. That'd be nice. Unfortunately, 'nice' is in short supply when it comes to the O'Driscoll gang, and Kieran is fairly certain it's already been spent between the four of them present.
"Did you really think you could hide from us forever, boy?"
Make that five.
He'd heard that line before, repeated over and over again in his nightmares. It was the same thing those nanites, or whatever Peter called them, growled at Kieran when they'd taken Colm's image months ago. That could be what's happening here and now, but Kieran can't be sure, and he's a bit too preoccupied to try to find out. One of the men grabs his hair by the small ponytail he's started to grow out and drags him to his unsteady feet. Another one of his attackers holds his arms behind his back. Between the first O'Driscoll keeping his head still, the second holding him firm, and the other two standing menacingly off to the sides, Kieran knows he can't escape. His newly regained breathing grows rapid as Colm approaches, knife already in his hand.
"Relax. I ain't gonna kill you. Not yet, at least."
Kieran knows that all too well, and he tries to respond in kind, but his throat won't work right. All he can muster is a weak grunt as Colm holds the blade up to his face.
"Should I go after that tongue of yours? Be mighty poetic, wouldn't it. Cuttin' out someone's tongue after they went and ratted you out..."
"I didn't have any cho—!"
It's stupid to try and refute that kind of an accusation, regardless of the circumstances. Colm makes sure to remind Kieran about that particular rule with a hard strike across his face. Kieran cries out again, but it's cut short by a strong hand grasping at his jaw and lifting his head again. Disoriented, Kieran can't help but try to focus on the first thing that catches his eyes. As luck would have it, his gaze locks with Colm's, fiery with pure rage.
"...Hold 'im still. I just got an idea."
The next few long minutes play out almost exactly as Kieran remembers them from back home. He throws as much of his remaining strength into trying to fight against the combined muscle of four burly cowboys, but it's not nearly enough. It wouldn't have been enough even if he hadn't already been battered and bruised to hell. As they keep him still, Kieran can hear himself quietly begging and praying for mercy from anyone who would listen. The last thing he can clearly see is the glint of a blade arching down towards his eyes and the cold visage of a methodical man fueled by hatred and vitriol only found in legends.
It's then that Kieran finds his voice, and he screams.
--
[WILDCARD]
[DO YOU WANT TO DO SOMETHING HAPPY? BECAUSE I AM SO DOWN FOR SOMETHING HAPPY.]
Kieran Duffy | Read Dead Redemption 2 | Currently in-game| CW: GORE, TORTURE, BODY HORROR
Fatigue no longer dragged at Kieran’s every step, nor did the everlasting threat of a cough tickling at the back of his throat. Sneezes didn’t plague him anymore, and he finally managed to get his sniffles under control. Everything seemed to be looking up after a good couple of weeks full of that special kind of misery only a bout of illness could bring.
Then the doors that he’d grown used to opening immediately as he approached them remained firmly shut. Adding insult to injury were the moments when these doors would actively close on him with an indignant WOOSH.
Kieran stands in front of the door to the dining hall, hands on his hips and a scowl clear on his face.
“Aw, c’mon!!! This is the second time today!” he whines… at the door. First time for everything.
“I just wanna make myself a sandwich…”
--
[FAMILIAR GROUND] – [CLOSED TO BEN, PRATT, & CARLISLE]
It’s well towards the end of the month that Kieran finds himself shut out—again—by one of those doors. Somewhere along the way, someone has explained to him (whether it be a fellow outsider to Anchor, or a cog in the system itself) that it could have something to do with his prior illness. That didn’t exactly make him feel great. Still, Kieran took it upon himself to travel around. He needed the exercise, and a life full of manual labor made sure that he’d not only grown accustomed to it, but that he actively craved it. His time holed up with that weird cold had stolen nearly chance he had to put his body to work, and he needed to do something to get back into that groove. So, he sighs and walks away from this nearest door and into a somewhat unfamiliar section of the agricultural sector.
As Kieran mindlessly walks along a corridor, he finds himself rolling up his sleeves and loosening his neckerchief. Somewhere down the line, the air has grown a bit warmer. A bit more humid. The usually sterile scents sometimes peppered with pollen from the strange trees start mixing with something a little muggier. Like a swamp. He stops in his tracks, heart pounding in his chest as realization hits.
Somehow, the path Kieran had been following has warped into the outskirts of Shady Belle.
He remembers this spot in particular. He remembers what had happened here, just outside of the camp he dared not ever leave.
Adrenaline rushes through Kieran’s veins, and he turns to run—
—only to feel someone come up from behind him, grab him roughly by the middle and cover his mouth with a large grimy hand before he can shout for help. He struggles against the grip, kicking, rolling, and thrashing harder than he did back home now that he’s absolutely positive of what’s going to happen next. His assailant doesn’t break his grip, though, and only offers a chilling laugh with every unsuccessful attempt at freedom. He never found out who had been the one to kidnap him from the Van der Linde camp back then; Colm O’Driscoll had a bad habit of corralling tough, mean men by the dozens and turnover rates were high in his gang. It looks like he’s not about to find out here, either.
His boots leave definitive notches in the dirt as he continues to fight against the vice grip holding him tight. Eventually, Kieran manages to break the gang member’s hold just long enough to take a few glorious steps towards his escape. It’s a hope short-lived, however, as another O'Driscoll grabs him by his gangly arms and throws him roughly to the ground. His jaw slams against the ground and for a moment Kieran marvels that his teeth didn’t shatter from the force alone. The marvel quickly shifts to panic as a steel-toed boot slams into his side, undoubtedly cracking ribs and leaving him completely breathless. It’s an attack that’s as practical as it is cathartic—a traitor can’t shout for help if he can’t draw breath, after all.
Kieran just barely manages to suck in some air before another kick lands, this time aimed at the pit of his stomach and with enough strength to shock his entire body. He cries out, prompting another laugh from his assailants, and his vision starts to feather at the edges. He wonders if maybe he'll slip into unconsciousness before they kill him. That'd be nice. Unfortunately, 'nice' is in short supply when it comes to the O'Driscoll gang, and Kieran is fairly certain it's already been spent between the four of them present.
"Did you really think you could hide from us forever, boy?"
Make that five.
He'd heard that line before, repeated over and over again in his nightmares. It was the same thing those nanites, or whatever Peter called them, growled at Kieran when they'd taken Colm's image months ago. That could be what's happening here and now, but Kieran can't be sure, and he's a bit too preoccupied to try to find out. One of the men grabs his hair by the small ponytail he's started to grow out and drags him to his unsteady feet. Another one of his attackers holds his arms behind his back. Between the first O'Driscoll keeping his head still, the second holding him firm, and the other two standing menacingly off to the sides, Kieran knows he can't escape. His newly regained breathing grows rapid as Colm approaches, knife already in his hand.
"Relax. I ain't gonna kill you. Not yet, at least."
Kieran knows that all too well, and he tries to respond in kind, but his throat won't work right. All he can muster is a weak grunt as Colm holds the blade up to his face.
"Should I go after that tongue of yours? Be mighty poetic, wouldn't it. Cuttin' out someone's tongue after they went and ratted you out..."
"I didn't have any cho—!"
It's stupid to try and refute that kind of an accusation, regardless of the circumstances. Colm makes sure to remind Kieran about that particular rule with a hard strike across his face. Kieran cries out again, but it's cut short by a strong hand grasping at his jaw and lifting his head again. Disoriented, Kieran can't help but try to focus on the first thing that catches his eyes. As luck would have it, his gaze locks with Colm's, fiery with pure rage.
"...Hold 'im still. I just got an idea."
The next few long minutes play out almost exactly as Kieran remembers them from back home. He throws as much of his remaining strength into trying to fight against the combined muscle of four burly cowboys, but it's not nearly enough. It wouldn't have been enough even if he hadn't already been battered and bruised to hell. As they keep him still, Kieran can hear himself quietly begging and praying for mercy from anyone who would listen. The last thing he can clearly see is the glint of a blade arching down towards his eyes and the cold visage of a methodical man fueled by hatred and vitriol only found in legends.
It's then that Kieran finds his voice, and he screams.
--
[WILDCARD]
[DO YOU WANT TO DO SOMETHING HAPPY? BECAUSE I AM SO DOWN FOR SOMETHING HAPPY.]