Since I found a meme of similar premise that was rather disappointing, I decided to make my own. Many of these prompts involve gore and torture. Some scenarios are of my own creation, others are inspired by serial killers and horror literature. I’m sorry for being such a fucked up individual and gaining pleasure from thinking about these. But I’m really not.
“That would be wonderful, if you could," came his snippy reply, obsidian oculars narrowed with a hungry glint. He hadn’t eaten in well over a week, and his mental state was in a rather nasty downward spiral. Normally, garnering his own sustenance would have been simple, but not in a place like this - not around people like this.
He made no move to clamber off of the larger male, instead opting to remain seated upon his abdomen akin to an infuriated child. The palms of his hands rested upon Atlas’ chest as he cocked his head to the right a fraction, his jaw clenching as his hunger grew.
“You know for a damn fact those fuckers don’t give me my share of the food," he spat venomously, leaning down as his irises turned to scarlet, and teeth grew a sharpened edge. "So, you can either tell me who will actually give me the food I deserve, or I’ll garner some from a source I choose.”
"That ain’t my problem,” he hissed in return, pushing weakly at the knees that framed either side of his body. He could very easily have him displaced with a firm shove, though he knew the response he’d get would be less than favourable. So he would be given a chance before Atlas decided to pick him up and toss him to the ground, then hopefully, out of his damned life for the next three hours at least.
"Go an’ take it up with them, earn their respect instead’a havin’ me do it for ya. There’s plenty t’go around though I don’t know what kind a’ banquet you’re expectin’ — I don’t think you’ve noticed right enough, but we’re in th’middle of a war.”
He would not let him use such petty intimidation tactics on him, no matter how bizarre they happened to be. If he didn’t like how things were then he could leave, or cleave the skull of the man responsible for keeping watch over the rations. Whichever seemed easiest to him.
caedxs replied to your post:
"No, ‘cause if you were, you’d be dead - and prolly better off that way," he snapped vehemently, stomping over to the bed and promptly seating himself atop the other’s abdomen. "Share your food with me."
The other man might not have weighed all that much yet Atlas still chose to grunt as he settled above him, irritation mounting at an alarming speed. He blinked up at him and glared.
"Hold on a second, I’ll jus’ go get th’stash a’ fine meats an’ drink I keep under me bed shall I?" He parted with a dry scoff and sunk back into his pillows, the line of his mouth thinning by a considerable degree.
"Why don’t y’feck off an’ bother someone else who isn’t tryin’ t’sleep off three days’a work? Can y’do that without me there t’hold yer hand?”
Undeserved accomplishment. What a disturbingly appropriate way of describing Silas Cobb. Although, perhaps a little harsh, since he did work hard to establish himself as a businessman. A bit of under the table dealing didn’t go amiss either; whatever helped to get his name on the map, as it were.
"Oh, I do beg your pardon.” Scorn ran rampant in his tone. “I was unaware that rules of segregation had been instigated. My understanding was that people were, on the whole, entirely at liberty to stroll where soever they desired in this fine city of ours.”
If only he had a penny for every time he’d heard that one. A simple stroll so close to curfew through an area of the city known for it’s unsavoury inhabitants… there was a certain something not quite right with that tale. He might not’ve been up there with the ‘Best and Brightest’ but he wasn’t as stupid as this man likely believed him to be.
"Used to be that way but it ain’t like that now," he commented with a click of his tongue, setting off at a slow pace to block the path ahead. "Didn’t your mother warn y’bout th’dangers a’ wanderin’ round town at midnight?"
Atlas, he… he was tired. Beyond caring for anything but his own need to lie down, get some rest, perhaps get that burn on his arm properly looked at. Usually something urgent did come up before his head could hit the pillow, a rotten yet unavoidable part of the job, but very rarely did obstacles come in the form of slight, angry eyed men who blocked entire doorframes to tell him that they were hungry. Of all the fucking things.
"So go an’ find somethin’ t’eat — who’m I, yer mother?"
Having the splicers set upon him was one problem he hadn’t been anticipating. Wasn’t it just like Ryan to wait until they were almost ‘out’ to swoop in and dash their hopes like a child’s brain on cobblestone, flicking switches to set off all kinds of concealed traps that dotted the walls of the small docking bay, fully intending on making it their tomb.
Dozens of the unearthly creatures were climbing down from the pipes up above, the clang of their hooks all that Atlas could hear above the ringing smugness of the tyrant’s voice. Knowing that such a great number of spliced up lunatics couldn’t possibly be defeated by just one man, logically, the Irishman should’ve been making his way over to an exit, shooting down the few that stood in his way before running back to safety. Only he couldn’t. The boy was still up there, trapped in that box. Forget the sub and it’s empty contents; if that kid died then his dream of seizing Rapture was over.
Instead of allowing his thoughts to race he should’ve been paying better attention to the splicers, having lost sight of one particularly shrill bitch just long enough to allow her the chance of sinking the pointed end of her hook into the meat of Atlas’ shoulder.
The tip of her cigarette glowed as she considered his words slowly. Another few smoke rings wafted into the air between them. They broke apart before they reached Fontaine and wound into languorous trails. “I see your meaning. Is—” she grimaced. “Is contrary to medical advancement, but making the customers come back for more— Yes. I see now. It will keep us in business.”
The messy papers in front of her were shuffled and rearranged, sorted into one clumsy stack and then another. She took one of the piles— a solid bundle of pages dedicated to the results of organ revitilization— and unceremoniously dropped them into a desk drawer. The drawer was shut tight, and Brigid frowned.
"Consider it over," she sighed. "I will look into it some other time, if you decide it could prove useful."
Little Sisters were another matter entirely. Truth be told, Tenenbaum’s intent focus on ADAM’s healing properties had, in part, been an effort at spending her time away from the Little Sister project. The children were functional. She and Suchong had moved past the costly mistake of trying to use boys as well as girls, and had established a small supply of the creatures to continuously produce the ADAM so necessary to their profits. Brigid had hoped for that to be the end of it, to quietly leave the maintenance of the girls up to lesser scientists and pursue new courses of discovery. She was proud of her work with the project, of course. Had it not been for the orphans and the slugs she’d slipped into their bellies, she would probably be scratching notes on the backs of napkins in some hole in Pauper’s Drop. Working in close proximity to the creatures, however, was exhausting. Their mindless little tunes were incessant. They clung to her legs, scratched her stockings up with their grimy nails. If they’d been dogs, she might have kicked them. Even as children, the idea had crossed her mind more than once.
"We can look into the matter," she replied. "Perhaps finding way to speed metabolism will result in faster production. Ja, is possible. Is taking time, though. Faster solution, simply to acquire more subjects. If you are bringing me more, I can begin implantation process immediately.”
Perhaps there’d be more time in the future to waste on dead end science projects, tweak the results maybe so that the effects of the tonic could be dulled to a mere temporary effect, whether that lasted months or years was up to the brains upstairs. Whichever would turn a profit quickest. For now, however, their focus was to stay on the little sister program. They’d already made leaps and bounds since the project had started. Didn’t know how the woman had managed to pull it off but he was sure glad that she had, and that she did it on his payroll. At times, Fontaine couldn’t bear the thought of anyone else having discovered this little miracle, along with several other selfish thoughts that ran through his mind uninhibited.
As for the girls themselves… well, they were an unfortunate necessity. Unfortunate for him – building that orphanage hadn’t been cheap. They were hardly a delight to work with either; such grotesque little creatures. Children had so few positive traits to begin with and the side effects of the sea slugs implanted in their bellies didn’t help one bit; inducing pale, glowing eyes in each of the subjects along with stringy hair, sallow skin and the ability to always, always be dribbling some fort of foul substance from their mouths. There was only so much they could do to make them presentable seeing as they were practically walking messes, latching onto everything they could with their grubby hands. He’d learned that mistake the hard way while observing too closely one day, storming out of the labs later that afternoon with a foul temper and an excess of spittle smeared all down his trouser leg.
“Easier said than done,” he murmured darkly, picking himself up from where he’d settled on the corner of her desk, pacing now, wiggling the cigarette where it sat between his fingers. Relying on what came through the doors of the orphanage was a tricky business, it was almost as if they depended on the charitable donations of the public. That was not good. “Where’d you expect me to get them from, huh? Want me to birth ‘em myself?”
"What’s a lad like you doin’ sniffin’ round these parts?”
He turned in place, a derisive snort quick on the tail end of his words. Couldn’t place the face, yet he had a certain sort of look about him that came naturally to those who frequented that man’s fruity parties and galas. The man practically reeked of undeserved accomplishment.
"Ain’t you one’a Cohen’s monkeys?"
I’m really sorry.
Jack’s eyes whipped up to Fontaine in an instant. his blue eyes full of undeserving trust and admiration. As though being struck had wiped the slate clean. Fontaine was back to being someone worth idolizing. Jack was back to being the man’s youngest worshiper. The boy had messed up. He’d known it from the beginning. From the first time he’d intentionally sought out Frank Fontaine to ask him for something Jack had known he was messing up. He just hadn’t ever really been stopped.
"You mean it? If I do everything they tell me, I can get a puppy?"
The child might have changed the deal slightly. Going from a maybe to a definite. He didn’t care much at all. Just held out his hand in a gesture more than obvious to any businessman.
"Deal? I do what they tell me. I get a puppy. A cute puppy. With floppy ears and soft fur."
He couldn’t help but notice the convenient change in wording he’d used, though he said nothing of it. He had his doubts that the boy could manage to listen to his carers for more than five seconds without at least one vague attempt at rebellion, yet with the promise (whether it was a genuine one or not remained to be seen) of earning an animal somewhere down the line might do the kid some good, bump up his test scores and get him to focus for a change.
"Sure, whatever you want," he conceded with a snort, reaching to take Jack’s tiny hand and give it the lightest of shakes. The ‘deal’ had been made then. Hell if he even knew where to get a puppy should Jack actually manage to behave himself. Perhaps he could convince someone else to buy one for him, try to integrate it into his training somehow…