Conceit

Content warning. Explicit. Nasty. Not the sort of explicitness you'll all be hoping for on reading the first four words.

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Conceit


Tied to the chair, the monk forced his good eye open and watched them. The same three men: two henchmen, brothers by the look of them, and the short, thick-set man he'd nicknamed Frog. They ignored him, arguing about something. They had been doing a lot of that recently, and it generally turned out to be bad news for him. Sure enough, after a while two of them stormed in his direction, still shouting behind them, and he tensed.

On his blind side, Frog exclaimed something incomprehensible to him and lashed out with a kick, not seeming to mind whether he hit chairleg or monk leg. That the argument was about him, the monk had already surmised; probably debating whether it was safe to keep him here. Ignorant. The order would not come looking for him. They had more important things to do than rush to the rescue of any agent stupid enough to let himself be overpowered.

He tried to turn to watch Frog, but his head would not cooperate. Hair had fallen partially across his face, greasy, ill-conditioned and missing several clumps thanks to his hosts' ministrations. Frog mashed a thumb into the mess that remained of his left eye socket. Dissociated from the pain - a neophyte's technique - the monk observed the shaking as Frog laughed at something, digit still pressed into the captive's skull.

Once they realised he could read lips, they'd decided he didn't need his eardrums. Now they only had to turn their backs when they didn't want to be heard. (Not that they even bothered with that any more, as it became increasingly obvious he would not be going anywhere.) A greasy meat skewer had been used for the purpose, which had been about as painful as he'd imagined. Not creative, these people. If the tables were turned...

He would do his job, quickly and efficiently, that was all. The monk had never claimed creativity, either.

One more kick for luck, and they retreated to the other room, leaving him with his thoughts. The monk slumped a little, and breathed his relief at their unobservance.

Frog had brought a brush and paper yesterday, the last time they had tried to make him talk. 'Talk' was, of course, a sick irony; actual speech was out of the question, a slow afternoon with red-hot pliers had seen to that. He had nothing to say to them even before the rats got his tongue, and was not inclined to change his mind. They had pushed the brush into his hand regardless, so he had thrown it at a guard. To his shame, the instrument only grazed the man's neck instead of piercing the blood vessel he'd aimed for.

When their inferior reaction times had elapsed Frog had wrenched the monk's arm back, bone snapping, and retied it thoroughly. They had argued then, and he'd endured the brunt of their frustrations for the rest of the evening. He had zoned out, making himself as dead and unfeeling as the wood of the chair, until they wore themselves out and left.

Shifting a fraction, the monk noted with detached interest the movement of the jagged fracture behind him. He could tell there was something not right with his ribs, too, and his lower lung was still ever so slowly filling with fluid. The arm was useless; by itself, just possibly salvageable, but with the other injuries, no. No, the prognosis was not in doubt. A crippled fighter was worth nothing; he had no illusions about his usefulness to the order now.

Still he would have liked to die at home, given the choice. Then again, given such a choice, he would of course eschew such sentimental indulgence in exchange for success in this last mission. Perhaps it was not too late. If he made it home, they could extract what he knew before dispensing with him. A clean end, if more than he deserved: death with honour, dignity, and on the whole much better than sitting around on his backside.

It had taken him all day to work his way through the ropes. That they didn't notice him throughout that time was testament to their growing laxity. The monk decided to make sure it was their last testament. His good hand slipped out of the loosened bonds and began to undo the belt around his neck.

The alarm was finally raised as he took the first few steps away from the chair (he would almost miss that faithful bit of furniture, he thought light-headedly). The first one came at him with a knife. Even in his current state, a single man posed no challenge, and now the monk had a knife.

The others paused in the doorway. The taller man swore. "How the hell did he get--" And then he caught sight of the sharp splintered bone dangling at the monk's side.

"Psychotic devil!" he cursed, but the monk was not paying attention to his mouth to hear. He was slicing Frog open in a single slick, wet arc.

~~~

When he got the warehouse door open, he finally realised where he was. One of the artisans' districts, near the open-air market. Not far from home at all. If he had been conscious when they'd arrived here, he could have saved everyone a lot of trouble.

A few passers-by stared openly, but most turned away, feeling that an injured monk was not something they ought to be seeing.

He blinked, or winked rather, in the sun. Daylight. Afternoon? He'd lost track. He thought to check the time. Ah. Wonderful - if he was sharp about it, he could be home, debriefed and disposed of before evensong. That shouldn't put anyone out unduly, and it would scotch the one failure on his record. Redeemed. A clean run.

On the whole, he thought, that could not have gone much better. The monk headed for home.

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Post-production notes

Please don't ask what brought this on. I suspect my mind had some, ah, stuff to work out. It was aided and abetted in this by Dawn of the Dead, a little angry music and especially the books of Mr Iain M Banks, Use of Weapons in particular.

C&C bashfully sought. As detailed as you like, but preferably constructive.

Whoa. *whistles* Jaina says normally only undead are so capable despite injury, which of course meshes with the DotD thing. (We still need to see that. Jaina claims zombies are only slow once someone breaks their legs and is trying to get me to bet otherwise.)

I like it. I like it a lot. It details injuries, which appeals to me (because, lo, I am a madwoman). Only problem? What happens next? What happened before? We wants context! Yeah!

The monk says it's actually not such an incredible feat - it's all about how you use your last adrenaline burst, and if you know you don't need to keep anything in reserve...

These monks worry me somewhat, and if I did my job right, you should be able to see why.

Some would say these guys are zombies.
Dawn of the Dead is cool. I haven't seen the original (have seen Night of the Living Dead, but not Day of the Dead) but it was slick, had some lovely shots (CAMERA shots, thank you!), and made us laugh out loud on occasion, even if one plot development was obvious the first time you see one of the characters.
Shaun of the Dead looks wonderfully daft too. Ahh, shambling horrors.

Shamblers! Horrors! I play Eternal Darkness, summon monsters call horrors, and name them Stumpy. So far I've only gotten to Stumpy the Second, but I'm working on it. *eg* And I would never send a horror into a closed room and wait for my brother to take the controls and find it, no sirree... hehehehe. Those critters are wicked tough. *shuts up*

Me, like zombies and such lately? Nooooo. Horrors are stronger than mere zombies, see....