guy dobbs: stirring up shit, 1951 - 1980 (reporter_guy) wrote in find_horcruxes, @ 2010-01-10 21:48:00 |
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Guy was lying on the floor, hands and feet tied together behind his back, gag stuffed into his mouth and tied around his head. His shoulders had long ago gone numb from being pulled at such an angle for so long. But his mind was running as fast as ever. Or at least as fast as possible for having gone without a fag or coffee for longer than anytime in recent memory. He'd spent a while when he'd first regained consciousness testing the bindings, quickly coming to the conclusion that the bastards who had him knew what they were doing and had decided to not waste the energy trying to break free: it was fruitless. Instead, he bided his time, taking full account of his surroundings. He wasn't naive: he knew the chances of getting out of this alive were slim. But on the highly unlikely chance that he might just get a roughing up and a "let this serve as a lesson," he was going to remember every detail possible. Years of being on the scene and having to take in all the details to remember later to write about would come in handy, if he ever got the chance. Which he probably wouldn't. As a rule, Guy wasn't particularly positive and optimistic: he preferred to be realistic. And realistically speaking: he probably wasn't going to be leaving this place alive. So he just lay there and waited, taking in his suroundings, trying to figure out what he could use to his advantage if they actually untied him and gave him a chance to fight back. Rabastan's expression was a rather frightening mix of glee and cruelty as he and Dylan walked towards the room they were using as Dobbs' prison. It was the spare bedroom in the townhouse and he'd had his house elf remove the bed and most of the fittings prior to bringing Dobbs there. He made a mental note to tell the elf to replace the carpet once they were done. There was liable to be blood and it was probably easier to replace the carpet than to try and get the blood out. That was also why Rabastan was wearing the clothes he was - a pair of plain black trousers and a plain black shirt, both easily discarded afterwards. He'd forgone the mask as well. It wasn't as though Dobbs was going to be permitted to live to identify him though he could have some fun suggesting it could be so and seeing if Dobbs was stupid enough to believe it. He glanced over at Dylan when they reached the door to the room. "I have some spare knives if you wish to use them?" he offered politely as he opened the door and walked in. Dylan was a colleague after all. It always paid to be polite to colleagues no matter what you were doing. They were purebloods from good families after all, not one of those crass, crude Mudbloods. He looked down at Dobbs and smirked cruelly. "Ah, there you are. Comfortable?" Dylan had followed suit when it came to attire. Smart man, that Rabastan. Blood was very difficult to get out, and he wouldn't have liked his favourite shirts to get stained. The location chosen was very convenient as well, and he had to silently thank fate for having Rabastan as a partner in this task. "It'll be my pleasure," Dylan nodded, stepping in after him. He was normally a hex-and-curse sort of guy, but knives might have been interesting. Mix them up with some painful spells and they'll have a brand spankin' new torture method. He circled around the room, instead of walking straight toward their hostage. Dobbs would be able to get a clear description of him that way. But what use would it be when they were soon going to kill him and string him up for the world to see? "Don't think he is. Damn shame. What do you think, Rab? Should we help him out? Make him feel a little more at home?" Guy swiveled his head to glare at the other men as they entered the room. As he was conveniently gagged -- likely to keep him from shouting, which probably meant they were in a populated area -- he couldn't answer the first one's question, but he knew it was hypothetical anyway. First chance he got -- if he got a chance -- he was spitting in the arse's eyes. He knew who the first one was. Rabastan Lestrange. The other one calling him 'Rab' only confirmed it. The other one, he wasn't entirely positive who he was. The fact that they had gotten rid of their masks could only mean one thing: they didn't intend to let him out of this alive. Something about that knowledge was ... almost calming. They were fully planning to kill him tonight. Most likely, given who they were, they were going to try to make him beg. If they gave him a chance to fight back, he would. But he would not beg. Rabastan pulled out his wand and summoned his knife case, sending it over to the dresser that was one of the two pieces of furniture left in the room. He ambled over and flicked the catches open before displaying the knives within. "Take your pick," he said with a certain amount of pride in his collection. He then turned and arched an eyebrow at Dobbs before sighing in a somewhat melodramatic manner. "I think I am a terrible host. You're quite right, Dylan. It's is shocking of me to leave him in such discomfort." He walked over to the plain wooden chair that had been left in the corner and picked up, placing it in the centre of the room. He then levitated Dobbs into the chair and bound him there, not bothering to undo his arms. "There." He looked satisfied and amused. "That's much better, isn't it?" Dylan helped himself! It was a rather nice collection. He'd have to remember to find out where he had gotten this from, because it might come of good use to him later on as well. He immediately went for the short bayonet of the bunch, admiring the handlework on it as he turned around to face Rabastan and Dobbs. He only threw him a casual glance before turning his attention back to the knife. "Of course. Much better. Comfortable position means a more attentive guest." And louder screams... at least what he could manage with his mouth still bound. "Guy Dobbs, is it? Dylan Selwyn. Allow me to give you a welcoming gift to the party." With just a small smile, he lifted his wand and immediately went for a quick Cruciatus. It was just a taste, but nothing compared to how badly he wanted to mutilate the fucker. "Come on, mate, can't start the butchering without you." Being upright and in a chair was not exactly an improvement, as he was still bound and, more specifically, bound to the chair, which further limited his movements. And, of course, he was still gagged. So kind of them to leave that there. It certainly did its job at muffling his screams of pain when Selwyn hit him with the cruciatus. He did not want these fuckers to derive any pleasure from this, but fuck if he could bite back those screams. Every nerve in his body was on fire, and despite its brevity, it still hurt worse than Guy ever could have imagined. Dislocating his shoulder, breaking ribs, even that time he got a bludger to the collarbone when he tried out for the Quidditch team in second year, none of that was even a blip compared to the pain from the cruciatus. And even when the curse was lifted, the memory of the pain still lingered. And yet he forced himself to hold his head up and meet Selwyn's gaze with a glare. Rabastan stepped back slightly to allow Dylan to work and he watched the results of the Cruciatus with delight. He had always liked that spell. The Killing Curse was useful but far too quick. The Cruciatus was slow and lingering and he'd often wondered what would happen if you held it on someone for too long. Logic and the books he'd read said you could easily drive them insane but he'd like to try it one day. "Very nice," he said admiringly when Dylan was finished. He glanced over at Dobbs and laughed. "Oh, look. He's being defiant." He ambled over to Dobbs and pulled one of his new knives out of its arm sheath. "I love it when my... prey is defiant." He placed the tip of the knife at the top of Dobbs' cheek then slowly drew it down to the jawline, leaving a thin bloody streak in it wake. He didn't care about the implications in his statement. Dobbs didn't matter and Dylan was a fellow Death Eater. "It's so entertaining." He tapped the flat of the blade against Dobbs' right shoulder. "Did you know that the main nerve for your arm runs right along the top of the shoulder here? Protected only by a tiny amount of muscle. The human body is a fascinating mix of strength and fragility." As he said that last, he sliced through the top of Dobbs' shoulder, not deeply but enough to cut that nerve and nick the vein next to it causing blood to well out of the cut. "Oops!" There was no regret in his voice, just mockery. "Now I've gone and made a mess." "Actually," Dylan started, leaning over to inspect the wound with mildly mocking interest. "I think a bit of red would do him good. Or maybe a little more. Yeah, I say a little more. You barely looks like the proper poster boy." After all, if they were going to make one that looked best for their case, they needed plenty of blood. Soak the fucker's clothes in it, even. Without another word, Dylan swiftly moved the knife across his chest, creating a deep horizontal slash, just a slight test to see how sharp it was. And it was pleasing enough for him. He would have preferred something that could cut away at the bone as well inside that body, but this would have to do. "Huh, not bad!" Though he shouldn't have been surprised. Keeping these in tip-top shape, especially for a Death Eater, was smart. After the cruciatus, the tiny sting of the knife on his cheek was nothing. It did, however, have the benefit of slicing through the gag that was tied over his mouth, so he could finally speak. Or, better yet, spit on the bastard, which he did. The cut on his shoulder didn't particularly hurt any more than the slice on his cheek had, but he felt his arm go numb at the cut. He was right-handed, but if he could manage to get free, he could always use his left arm just fine. He didn't even entirely notice or care about the blood welling up. The slash across his chest, though, that one hurt. Not as much as the cruciatus, but it was definitely not something he could just try to ignore, especially as blood began welling out of the cut and soaking into his shirt and dripping onto his jeans. He bit back a cry of pain, instead glaring up at Selwyn and Lestrange. "Tough fuckers, aren't you?" his voice was raspy, partly from disuse and partly from the pain radiating from his chest and the remnants of pain from the cruciatus. "Slicing up a defenseless bloke you have tied to a chair. Can't fight a fair fight, can you?" Rabastan chuckled at both Dylan's actions and Dobbs' defiant words. "Oh look, Dylan," he all but purred. "The little creature wants to try and goad us into letting him go. Clearly he thinks we're as stupid as he is." He patted Dobbs on the head in very much the same manner one might do to a dog. "They always do this, you know. I have no idea why. It's as though they expect us to suddenly say 'why, yes, old chap, how terribly unsporting of us.'" He circled around the chair and eyed Dobbs as he considered his next move. When he got behind the man again, he swiftly cut away the top of Dobbs' shirt, exposing his shoulders and as much of his back as he could. "There are muscles that attach to the vertebrae here." His tone was absent and almost academic. "I have spent some time studying this. Learning their exact placement. How they are attached. How they can be detached. I rather think I have it just right now." In a series of swift knife thrusts, he slashed into Dobbs' back, aiming for the sides of the vertebrae and slicing through the muscles there and trying to cut them free of the bone. Dylan laughed. A genuine laugh. Because the kid was so amusing. "Yeah, that's how it's usually done," he said, wiping the knife slightly on his jeans before raising it up again. "The real fun is only in the larger battles. More prey to kill, you know? With you... well, there are our Dark Lord's orders." Rabastan's description, while interesting, was only taking far too long. He could explain everything later, but the more important part was to put this guy through agony. "Yes, but can we get to the part that really makes him tick? What do you like, Guy? Writing, yes? You'd write just about anything for your paper, wouldn't you?" As he spoke, he walked around to where Rabastan stood. But his goal wasn't his muscles, granted for they were just as important. Instead he reached down, grasped Dobbs' hands, and easily severed off several fingers, particularly his thumbs. "I think a writer needs those, yeah?" he said, almost gleefully, from behind their hostage. Guy hadn't particularly expected to be thankful for the bindings that held him more or less upright in the chair and kept his upper arms firmly at his sides. But as Lestrange slashed at the muscles in his back, he really was thankful for them, as they kept him upright and mostly kept those upper back muscles from moving. He was biting down hard on his tongue to keep from screaming at the pain. He would not give them that. He bit into and nearly through his tongue, though, as Selwyn grabbed his hands and severed several of his fingers off. But he would not scream. Even if they untied him, even if they gave him back his wand, he wasn't getting out of here alive. He wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of breaking him. Blood welling in his mouth from biting his own tongue, Guy gathered as much as he could at the front of his mouth and spat it out on Selwyn. Drawing a raspy breath, he managed to ask around his mangled tongue, "Either of you shag your sisters yet?" His voice was dry and a bit weak, and his words were slightly garbled because of his tongue. He was already getting a bit lightheaded from the blood loss, losing it now as he was from chest, back, and hands. Rabastan snickered at Dobbs' words, the glee that he usually felt when he was playing with his prey bubbling to the surface. "He's like a little yappy dog, isn't he?" His voice was full of mirth and his eyes danced with amusement as he looked over at Dylan. "One of those little fluffy yappy dogs. I feel like I should buy one and call it Guy. Wouldn't that be fun!" His grin turned into a cruel smirk. "Of course, this little yappy puppy needs to be put down. Unfortunately he's a very badly trained yappy little puppy and can't be salvaged." He pulled out his second knife from its matching arm sheath and with sharp precise movements placed a series of criss-cross slash marks down Dobbs' already mutilated back until he hit the top of the chair. He then darted around the chair and slashed a series of deep cuts along Dobbs' jaw and cheeks before finishing the move off with a slash aimed at Dobbs' eyes. Dylan was hardly as cheery in that moment when he had blood spit on his face. More than just a little annoyed, he stepped away to clean it off and let Rabastan have his turn. Son of a bitch. But it was his final moments alive, so maybe he should have let Dobbs have the pleasure of fighting back as pitifully as he can. Though when he turned back around, he couldn't help himself and aimed his fist as hard as he could at the bloke's nose. It helped with the temper, at least, so soon afterwards Dylan was laughing. "Speaking of sisters, yours is going to need a massive amount of comfort after this... don't worry though, that's my specialty. Kill her family, then provide the comforting. I wonder, Rab, what she looks under those dreary clothes, without the glasses... hair let loose?" The further slashes to Guy's back weren't nearly as bad as the previous ones. His body was already so beaten that the worse injuries were taking priority in making their presence known. The cuts to his face, however, were more than happy to make themselves known. But still he swallowed back any screams or other noises of pain. He would not give them that. A strangled noise managed to escape when Lestrange slashed his eyes; Guy wasn't quick enough to jerk back, especially with all the damage to the muscles in his upper back. The dagger sliced through eyelids and punctured his eyeballs, blinding him. He was nearly ready to give up. Guy never gave up, but this was too much. He couldn't hang on much longer. A fist slammed into his nose, breaking it. He coughed up blood. And at the comments about his sister, he jerked in the direction of the voice: if he hadn't been so injured and tied to the chair, he would have thrown himself at Selwyn. As it was, the movement sent daggers of flaming pain through his upper back, leaving him breathless. "Leave ... her ... alone," he rasped out, spitting more blood out in the general direction of the voice. "Don't ... you ... touch ... her." He had even less use of his tongue now, but he was trying hard to try to speak. Rabastan snickered again, at Dylan's comments, at Dobbs' response. How typical was this. First the insults in a failed, flawed attempt to get them to let him go then the insults in an attempt to get them angry. He'd seen it, heard it, before. It was so typical and so boring. "She's probably a tiger in bed," he observed lightly. "You know that type always is. Tightly buttoned up in public, wild when in private." He decided that punching looked like fun and slid his knives back into their sheaths. Messy of him, of course, but he'd clean it all up later. He darted in close to Dobbs and punched him hard in the stomach and then in the ribs. That was much better, Dylan thought, knowing that he had gotten to him, finally. Typical and lowly for the idiot to bring up the inbreeding stereotype, and assume that it would irk them into... into what, really? Letting him go? Giving him a fight? Hell, why not? Muscles were cut, so were the fingers, and he was basically blind. Might have been fun to watch him flail at them. "Think I ought to give it a try. It might be easy to get in, give a dashing smile and watch the bird swoon." Dylan picked up his wand again, trying to figure out just how much the Cruciatus would hurt now, after he was already bleeding a fucking pool beneath his feet. Maybe he'd scream this time? "Crucio." The punches caught Guy entirely off-guard. The one to his stomach caused him to spit out more blood, and the one to the ribs broke a few of them; one of the broken ribs punctured his lung, and he struggled to draw in a choking, wheezing breath. He couldn't see. Blood and vitreous fluid mingled together to drip down his cheeks from his slashed eyes, stinging the cuts on his cheeks and jaw that also bled freely. His nose was broken. He was nearly choking on his own blood, which continued to well up in his mouth from his bitten tongue, and on top of that he now only had one functioning lung and a few broken ribs that made it painful to try to draw in breath. The slash on his chest was still bleeding freely, and he would swear he could actually hear the drips of blood from his mangled hands hit the floor. He didn't know where the missing fingers were, and he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know. He couldn't feel his right arm at all, and the wound there was probably still bleeding, too. He couldn't move his upper body at all without searing pain shooting through the cuts on his upper back. They could untie him right now and he wouldn't even be able to make it out of the room. His chin dropped to his chest. He was defeated. There was no fight left in him. He wanted them to just end it already, put him out of his pain. But instead, what he got was a second cruciatus. As nerve-searing pain shot through his body, he gasped for breath like a fish caught out of water. If he could have drawn enough air to scream, if he could have screamed around the blood in his mouth, the blood that he was now inhaling into his lungs as he fought for air, he would have. Let me die, he silently asked. Please just let me die. Rabastan felt a certain vague sense of admiration at Dobbs' resilience. He'd feel more admiration if the man was still being defiant but then... this was the sort of man who wrote foul articles about people who had died and could no longer defend themselves. He was a coward because that was the sort of thing a coward did. A coward picked on those who could not fight back. A coward picked on soft targets. And a coward died with a whimper rather than a roar. That he and Dylan were not allowing Dobbs to fight back was a hypocrisy that failed to register with Rabastan. After all, in his mind, they were exterminating a cockroach, not fighting a man. "Why I do believe we have managed to silence his filthy tongue," Rabastan said in a mocking tone as he pulled out one of his knives again. "Do you think he might have learned his lesson or am I giving him far to much credence for intelligence?" He stepped forward and slashed twice deep into Dobbs' thigh, nicking the femoral artery on the second attempt. It was almost a relief when the knife dug into his thigh. Blood flowed freely from that cut, moreso than from any of his other wounds. He might not be able to see it, but he could feel it. He'd already been lightheaded from the previous blood loss, but he was quickly feeling less and less. Thank you was his last thought before he slipped into unconsciousness. It wasn't long before the pain went away and the blood stopped flowing from his wounds completely. Dylan looked down at him, waiting for him to say anything. It didn't seem like anything was going to come out. He allowed himself to grin proudly. Quite the accomplishment here. Their Lord would be very pleased. "Perhaps we should allow him to think over what he's learned here tonight," he said, nodding and stepping back. Awfully lot of blood. It wasn't even worthy blood, more reason to wash off his shoes from that filth. "Could use a stiff drink, Rab, for a completed job. What do you say?" |