Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Yes Master, My Master ❯ Prologue
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Spider_Queen 
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): / Hentai / Drama / Angst | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 10.26.2001 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.1K | Visits: 1.5K | Status: Completed
Anime/Manga: Gundam Wing Fan Fiction | Genre(s): / Hentai / Drama / Angst | Type: Other | Uploaded On: 10.26.2001 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.1K | Visits: 1.5K | Status: Completed
Disclaimer: GW t'isn't mine.
Note: READ THE WARNINGS IN THE SUMMERY.
Quatre Winner lay still, his eyes half closed though he still looked around through his dark lashes. He lay partially on his broken arm, though it was now numb, sparing his much pain. He couldn't move-he was too weak, too tired, in too much pain. He could feel the dry blood on his cheak and chest, the cracked and bruised ribs made it hard from him to breath. His arm had no feeling all the way up to the shoulder, but he knew it was broken, the bone had broken through the skin when they had cracked it. Broken it, then tortured him further, pulling him by it, hitting the bone with all their might. They had tortured him, broken him and tortured him.
He didn't know who they were-he knew little about them at all. He knew that there was three of them-a blond one with a broken nose and black eye that Quatre himself had given him; a bald one with large fists that were responsable for several bruises on Quatre's body, and black haired one, that hid in shadows, a small sadistic smile on his face as he watched Quatre's beatings. He knew that they were strong, and that they were sadists-they asked no questions while they tortured Quatre, they demanded nothing. They said nothing, just laughed as Quatre screamed, as the knives tasted his blood...
Quatre didn't know who they were, or what they wanted. He didn't know how they knew him, or why they chose to take him-perhaps it was because he was a Winner, but they asked for nothing! Perhaps it was because he was a Gundam pilot, but they seemed to know everything! Perhaps it was simply because of his apperences, or sweet nature. The choice was not random-it was planned. They had stormed into the Winner mansion while the others were on a mission, and the magnacorps were busy-they had taken nothing, detroyed nothing-except Quatre.
Quatre tried to fight back at first, both in the mansion and when he woke up in the nightmarish room. He had tried, and suceeded in giving the blond one a good punch-but that did little to help his situation. The bald man laughed and the shadowy one smiled deceptivly, and the blond man had slowly beaten Quatre to the ground.
At first, Quatre resolved not to cry; to scream; to moan, to let the pain he was feeling out. But that didn't last long-they were good at inflicting pain, skilled at the fine art or plaing blows where it hurt the most-yet did little actual damage, and Quatre's resistance only seemed to highten their enjoyment. The longer he held out, the longer their sadistic pleasure continued.
Quatre quickly broke. He'd screamed, he'd cried, he'd begged-with no avail. The others laughed, and hurt him more. Once or twice, the dark one, the one with black hair to his shoulders, and the pale skin, would come over. He would never touch Quatre-he would smile, look at the boy as though he were a bug, but he would never hurt him, touch him. On few occasions, he would order the others to stop-let Quatre regain some strength, just to have it beat out of him once again.
The last beating had been the worst-Quatre's blood had stained the walls of the room they'd been in red; his beautiful face had been cut up. They'd raped him-painful and humiliationg, and then they'd broken his arm effortlessly, bringing on a new wave of pain that Quatre hadn't felt before. But that wasn't enough-they used the broken arm to torture him further, until he, at last, mercifully passed out.
He'd awakened in the cell, slumped on the ground, with his disjointed should and broken arm beneath him, already numb. The rest of his body was one big bruise, one ache. He was just a huddled mass of pain and confusion.
The prison he was in now was small-a miniature dungeon, or obliette. The walls were stone, with one door. Quatre wasn't far from it, but he couldn't move, and the door was of iron anyhow, and unlikely to open easily. The floor was dirt. There was little light, just shadows.
The air was freezing, chilling Quatre through the detroyed clothing that clung with detirmination to his back. The stone sucked up all the warmth, and cold air seeped in through the small, open grate on the cieling. Looking up through the little portal, Quatre could see the dark blue of the night sky. He knew he couldn't get out through the grate, and didn't even try-it was small, and unreachable. So he just lay their.
He wondered if he was going to die now. In part, he wished for it. He wished for the release that only death could bring him-no one could hurt the dead, there was no pain. He wondered if he had been thrown in their to die-his captors had had their fun with him, now he was of no use. He could picture the blond mand and the bald man betting-what would get him first, the cold? He own blood loss? Thirst? Hunger? Inner demons-the thoughts that ran through his head of the pain; of his friends; of death? Perhaps he would kill himself, that would be sport, eh?
Painfully, Quatre shook his head at his own thoughts. Though part of him wanted to give up, he refused to. There was still the possibility of rescue, wasn't there? He knew Trowa would help him if he could, or Wufei, Heero or Duo. They would search for him, and the magnacorps too-or would they not be able to? Oz had been on the offensive, there had been so little time-would they search only to find they had been too late?
Quatre let his head drop back to the hard ground, ignoring the dirt that got into his mouth in the process. He couldn't think of that, he couldn't be disheartened more than he already was.
His blue eyes drifted shut, and he had to make an effort to hold the tears inside. Likelihood was, he'd never see them again-never laugh at Shinigami's jokes, or get threatened by Heero; never again hear Wufei's shouts for justice or feel.....feel his beloved Trowa's arms holding him gently after a battle. That was what hurt the most, that was the biggest loss.
Shivering from the chill and his thoughts, Quatre slowly felt his mind being released. A last thought crossed his mind-was he dying?-and then he was gone.
~*~
Review?
Note: READ THE WARNINGS IN THE SUMMERY.
Yes Master, My Master
Quatre Winner lay still, his eyes half closed though he still looked around through his dark lashes. He lay partially on his broken arm, though it was now numb, sparing his much pain. He couldn't move-he was too weak, too tired, in too much pain. He could feel the dry blood on his cheak and chest, the cracked and bruised ribs made it hard from him to breath. His arm had no feeling all the way up to the shoulder, but he knew it was broken, the bone had broken through the skin when they had cracked it. Broken it, then tortured him further, pulling him by it, hitting the bone with all their might. They had tortured him, broken him and tortured him.
He didn't know who they were-he knew little about them at all. He knew that there was three of them-a blond one with a broken nose and black eye that Quatre himself had given him; a bald one with large fists that were responsable for several bruises on Quatre's body, and black haired one, that hid in shadows, a small sadistic smile on his face as he watched Quatre's beatings. He knew that they were strong, and that they were sadists-they asked no questions while they tortured Quatre, they demanded nothing. They said nothing, just laughed as Quatre screamed, as the knives tasted his blood...
Quatre didn't know who they were, or what they wanted. He didn't know how they knew him, or why they chose to take him-perhaps it was because he was a Winner, but they asked for nothing! Perhaps it was because he was a Gundam pilot, but they seemed to know everything! Perhaps it was simply because of his apperences, or sweet nature. The choice was not random-it was planned. They had stormed into the Winner mansion while the others were on a mission, and the magnacorps were busy-they had taken nothing, detroyed nothing-except Quatre.
Quatre tried to fight back at first, both in the mansion and when he woke up in the nightmarish room. He had tried, and suceeded in giving the blond one a good punch-but that did little to help his situation. The bald man laughed and the shadowy one smiled deceptivly, and the blond man had slowly beaten Quatre to the ground.
At first, Quatre resolved not to cry; to scream; to moan, to let the pain he was feeling out. But that didn't last long-they were good at inflicting pain, skilled at the fine art or plaing blows where it hurt the most-yet did little actual damage, and Quatre's resistance only seemed to highten their enjoyment. The longer he held out, the longer their sadistic pleasure continued.
Quatre quickly broke. He'd screamed, he'd cried, he'd begged-with no avail. The others laughed, and hurt him more. Once or twice, the dark one, the one with black hair to his shoulders, and the pale skin, would come over. He would never touch Quatre-he would smile, look at the boy as though he were a bug, but he would never hurt him, touch him. On few occasions, he would order the others to stop-let Quatre regain some strength, just to have it beat out of him once again.
The last beating had been the worst-Quatre's blood had stained the walls of the room they'd been in red; his beautiful face had been cut up. They'd raped him-painful and humiliationg, and then they'd broken his arm effortlessly, bringing on a new wave of pain that Quatre hadn't felt before. But that wasn't enough-they used the broken arm to torture him further, until he, at last, mercifully passed out.
He'd awakened in the cell, slumped on the ground, with his disjointed should and broken arm beneath him, already numb. The rest of his body was one big bruise, one ache. He was just a huddled mass of pain and confusion.
The prison he was in now was small-a miniature dungeon, or obliette. The walls were stone, with one door. Quatre wasn't far from it, but he couldn't move, and the door was of iron anyhow, and unlikely to open easily. The floor was dirt. There was little light, just shadows.
The air was freezing, chilling Quatre through the detroyed clothing that clung with detirmination to his back. The stone sucked up all the warmth, and cold air seeped in through the small, open grate on the cieling. Looking up through the little portal, Quatre could see the dark blue of the night sky. He knew he couldn't get out through the grate, and didn't even try-it was small, and unreachable. So he just lay their.
He wondered if he was going to die now. In part, he wished for it. He wished for the release that only death could bring him-no one could hurt the dead, there was no pain. He wondered if he had been thrown in their to die-his captors had had their fun with him, now he was of no use. He could picture the blond mand and the bald man betting-what would get him first, the cold? He own blood loss? Thirst? Hunger? Inner demons-the thoughts that ran through his head of the pain; of his friends; of death? Perhaps he would kill himself, that would be sport, eh?
Painfully, Quatre shook his head at his own thoughts. Though part of him wanted to give up, he refused to. There was still the possibility of rescue, wasn't there? He knew Trowa would help him if he could, or Wufei, Heero or Duo. They would search for him, and the magnacorps too-or would they not be able to? Oz had been on the offensive, there had been so little time-would they search only to find they had been too late?
Quatre let his head drop back to the hard ground, ignoring the dirt that got into his mouth in the process. He couldn't think of that, he couldn't be disheartened more than he already was.
His blue eyes drifted shut, and he had to make an effort to hold the tears inside. Likelihood was, he'd never see them again-never laugh at Shinigami's jokes, or get threatened by Heero; never again hear Wufei's shouts for justice or feel.....feel his beloved Trowa's arms holding him gently after a battle. That was what hurt the most, that was the biggest loss.
Shivering from the chill and his thoughts, Quatre slowly felt his mind being released. A last thought crossed his mind-was he dying?-and then he was gone.
~*~
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