Once upon a time in Bolivia

"Once upon a time in Bolivia"
Content: no sex, torture, abuse, gore (eye/mild), story only


Fiver: Thunder and lightning, very, very frightening.

The cacophony of battle was a distant, foggy droning of lights and sounds out of focus. Automatic gunfire barked and bellowed, interrupted by explosions. None of it made sense. None of it was real, just as she wasn't real. A flashback from another day, from weeks prior. Angela had been inserted with a couple other operators to fight a guerrilla war against the Lucano cartel for what had to be a month now, if not more. Initially, the fights were easy - the narcos did not expect to be attacked this close to their strongholds, deep in the Bolivian jungle. But here, were the coca plants grew like weeds, where the populace was easily subdued and the authorities easily bribed, Dusty and her comrades in arms had struck and started to prove to be serious trouble.

This was a dream, no, a nightmare. None of it gave her the mercy of coming into focus. Her ears were ringing, and her body did not listen. Up was down, left was right, and the feeling of a stomach eager to churn and turn, to puke out the forming knot, grew ever stronger.

Sharp pain. Her jaw ached all out of a sudden, and someone screamed in the distance. Again, the other half of her face, and the screams came closer. Finally, the fog lifted, the thundering of guns and grenades abated. With fluttering eyes, Miss Graves came to. Something crusty, sticky, sickly warm coated her right ear and her neck. Each cheek was on fire, and it smelled like brackish water, sweat, the dank atmosphere of the jungle, and copper. One nostril stuffed, the other causing whistling, high pitched noises with each inhalation, and a blossoming headache all whispered their warnings to her. She felt sick, so sick, and just trying to bring her vision to focus made her stomach contract and protest again.

If it hadn't been for the ropes, she would have fallen off the chair. But the man in dark brown cargo pants, and a tank top, had seen to that not becoming an issue. He was in her face with this own, covered in cartel tattoos. Each word he spat out in her direction wafted the distinct taste of cheap moonshine.

"Escucha, perra! Hola, hay alguin, alli? Vete, a la mierda!"
* "Listen up, bitch! Hey, anyone in there? Wake the fuck up!"

His flat hand struck across her face with a hard slap resounding from the wooden walls of the hut she found herself in.

"Fuckin' yankee puta..."

Dustoff: Her head JOLTED from the force the cartel thug had out behind the blow. Her fuzzy memories struck away, the attempts to recall aborted by the godawful smell of cheap Moonshine and whatever he'd been eating for his meals. Something close to meat, probably. Meat and moonshine never smelled great. Or maybe she was smelling blood. She tasted blood, so this was another bad dream. Hazel eyes looked upon her tormentor, the soldier turned mercenary managing a half smug smirk, doubtlessly hindered by the trouble she was having making her face listen to her brain's commands. "Morning, sunshine." She finally managed, coughing HARSHLY, her stomach fighting back.
Instinctively, her hands yanked at the bindings, finding no give, as expected. She knew torture dreams. Or real torture, it was getting harder to tell by the second, Angela "Dustoff" Graves sparing a moment to glance at the walls, the floors, to take in what she saw, looking everywhere EXCEPT at the man who'd had her tied to her seat.

Fiver: "Ai, puta! Put dose pretty eyes up here, eh!?" He barked at her, and his left shot out to grab her by the throat.

The guy was built up, cut. Oh yeah, he could probably pummel her into mince if he so decided. For now, though, he didn't want that - for now, he wanted answer. And her avoidance of his face brought her more punishment, in the form of a backhand slap, on her already sore and bruised face. This one pushed the inner flesh of her cheeks to her teeth, drew blood. "I got'a few questions for ya, gringa! You've been shootin' up mi estacas, been dancin' on mi plaza, and I don't like ta find'a guest we no invited en nuestra pista. So, who sent ya, eh? Le's start small, mi pájaro." Foreigner. His men. His territory. His business. he called her bird. The English was laced with narco terms left and right.

The way he spoke of the people she killed, the place she operated in, all of it suggested he had some manner of control or say here. And with the details she gathered, the intel she had received, he vaguely fit a description of some local underboss.

"So, sing me a pretty song, por favor..." Nothing about him was pretty.

Dustoff: Pain was nothing new, even as he drew blood with the backhand, jerking her head aside once more. Still, being familiar with pain didn't mean she liked it. In fact, she kind of didn't. Pain blurred the lines, it mixed reality and whatever Dustoff's broken mind cooked up for a fantasy. Didn't help that her meds had run out days ago and they were starting to filter out of her system. Still, she had enough focus to pick up tidbits of information, things here and there.

He convinced these were his lands. He had the arrogance of a man given a little bit of power who thought it to be a lot. Everything was His, it was all about Him. Her eyes refocused on him, albeit glassy, seeing half through him instead of just seeing him, her right eye having trouble opening, likely due to whatever had led to her being tied to a chair, his massive mitt wrapped around her slender neck tight enough to make breathing exceptionally hard. "Hnnn.... Hnnn...." She wheezed, hissing through her teeth as bloody saliva dribbled over her lip, her whole body just one big ache. "I've... Got... A shitty singing voice." He spoke enough English to understand her, and Dusty, even fucked in the head as she was, didn't think to speak Spanish right back.

Fiver: "Oh, no, no, güera, I got my homie callin' me, some pinche metiche is all up in our stuff, and sendin' people ta Santa Muerte, and I ain't gonna take yer tough act, eso no es chido, mi corazon..." He called her... white bread. A damned nosy person. Referenced the deity of religious reverence the narcos of South America held in high regard. Her silence - not cool in his book. But the diminutives continued, with him calling her his darling-dear. His voice had that predatory purr of someone aware of the power dynamics, nay, someone sure of them. He deemed himself entirely in control. "Well, if you do want not to sing, maybe you need encouragement, eh?"

His hand left her throat and let her breath, but the respite was only purchased with the same hand brushing over her hair. Almost with affection. Almost gentle. Never a good sign.

"Estas jodida, mi maravillosa." - 'You are fucked, gorgeous.'

The fingers in her hair clutched and grabbed a full shock of it, yanked her head back, and he lunged over her, loomed over her, and gave her burning cheek a little pat. "... mirame en el ojo." - 'Look me in the eye.' His thumb slid up her cheek bone, and then covered her right eyeball. Slowly, he pushed in.

...

. . .

When she came back from what had happened, when her adrenaline and pain ridden mind snapped out of the hole it fallen into, he stood before her again. She was oddly cold, and her clothes stuck to her body. She was wet. Drips fell to the puddle around her, and by her feet, she saw the water seep into the wooden floor. The thug held an empty bucket, still shimmering with moisture.

"Ai, ni modo, puta... I don't need ya to see to talk, cabra. Ya wanna keep givin' me trouble? Who sent you?"
* It can't be help, bitch... and he called her a stubborn goat.

The bucket flew aside when he tossed it, skidding over the floor with metallic trundling.

Dustoff: Few things got a rise from Dusty during her dissociation. Very few things. Pain, though, real, biting pain? That could do it. She didn't remember, or maybe her mind wouldn't let her remember, anything beyond the disgustingly gentle touch he laid upon her before her world went searing white with agony.

Except... She remembered screaming. Lots of screaming. Agony, hurt, nothing but pure, unadulterated pain. The kind that dug deep down into her mind and reminded her this was all too real for her. It was a mercy when a sharp blow to her head sent her into silence, and a shock when water woke her up. Once more, her eyes tried to open, but this time, she only got half her vision. Gasping, panting, half her world was dark. It wouldn't open, why wasn't it opening!? In the seat, she pulled at her ropes again, scarcely aware of anything until the bucket clatter-crashed across the floor. "Why can't I see." It wasn't a question. Her voice hoarse, blown out from the brief bout of high intensity shrieking. "Why can't. I see." It wasn't a question. It was a demand, she'd lost half her vision, and her brain had yet to accept it. "Why can't I see!" It wasn't a question.

Fiver: For a moment, he just listened to her babbling, her rambling, only to start laughing. Dirty, ugly, laughter rolled from his chest and filled the hut. "¿Neta? Puta, I fuckin' gouged your eye out, that's fuckin' why. And you're still not fuckin' talkin'!" His patience grew thing, and he stepped back towards her. A crunch of his knuckles, and his arm pulled back to lay another punch to her abused face.

His phone bleeped, and played a horrid mish-mash of a strumming guitar and some singing in Spanish. A corrido, one of those ballads glorifying the narco culture. Worse than country, worse than folk, and a deeply ingrained topic of affection for the drug pushers. "Ai, Dios mío... stay right there, cabra. Don't run away, eh?" He pulled the flip-phone from his pocket and answered.

The conversation was brief, and the Spanish came in rapidfire stakkato. Yes, he was listening. No, she wasn't talking. Oh, the other one was? Oh yeah? Nice. Yeah, that's good. No, she was breaking apart without being much use. Yeah, he would be right over. Keep him awake.

Her tormentor slapped the phone shut and stuffed it back into his pocket, only to reach behind his back, and pull a pistol. Glock, nine millimeter. The black slide was carved and etched, with insignias of Santa Muerte, and the body had been sprayed in white and gold. Tacky. Over the top. And still deadly.

"Eh, adiós, puta. You were right, you have a shitty singing voice."

He pulled the trigger.

The hammer slammed onto the igniter.

The powder was lit, and the explosion propelled the projectile.

A flash of light, and then, darkness. The absence of everything. No more pain, no more thoughts. Nothing.

...

. . .

"No, that's not the one." - "You wanna go again?" - "Let's try this one next."

. . .

...

When she came back from what had happened, when her adrenaline and pain ridden mind snapped out of the hole it fallen into, he stood before her again. She was oddly cold, and her clothes stuck to her body. She was wet. Drips fell to the puddle around her, and by her feet, she saw the water seep into the wooden floor. The thug held an empty bucket, still shimmering with moisture.

"Ai, ni modo, puta... I don't need ya to see to talk, cabra. Ya wanna keep givin' me trouble? Who sent you?"

He tossed the bucket towards her, and it hit her shin. only adding to her repository of painful experiences. It trundled next to her chair, and came to rest, just be the left leg. Only one of her eyes followed her commands. The other was searing pain.

Dustoff: Few things got a rise from Dusty during her dissociation. Very few things. Pain, though, real, biting pain? That could do it.
This was familiar, but she didn't know why. But things were off. She remembered screaming, agony, and pain, but this was too dreamlike. Only one eye obeyed, and part of her knew why. Her voice was hoarse, a croak of pain forced up from her raw throat when the bucket hit her shin. She jerked in the chair, the burning agony setting in DEEP as her body, even with pain dulled by exhaustion, still hated her for putting it through this. Her one eye remained, and she gave another yank at her bonds, testing them with as much might as she could muster, panting. "Ffffuck... I can't say who sent me." She started, coughing violently, she must have torn something during the screaming fit.

Her eye darted around the room again, everything more familiar than the mentally malformed merc liked, too dreamlike. Had she seen this? Was this one real? Fuck, she wished she had a drink. Was this dream one that was going to kill her too? So many questions, so few answers, but even with her mind racing, spidering cracks in fragile sanity growing by the moment, she still tried to pull free.

Fiver: For a moment, he just listened to her babbling, her rambling, only to start huffing. "¿Neta? Puta, you're still not fuckin' talkin'! Are you loco, pinche perra?" His patience grew thin, and he stepped back towards her. A crunch of his knuckles, and his arm pulled back to lay another punch to her abused face.

His phone bleeped again. "Ai, Dios mío... stay right there, cabra. Don't run away, eh?" He answered again. The same conversation again. He pulled the gun again. "Eh, adiós, puta. You were right, you have a shitty singing voice." He pulled the trigger again. The hammer slammed onto the igniter.

The leg of her chair suddenly cracked and gave.

The powder was lit, and the explosion propelled the projectile. A flash of light, and then, pain. Something had cut across her cheek, and left a searing fiery sensation. She fell, fell, towards the bucket, and his barrel followed her. He moved slower. She fell slower. He moved... and stopped. She stopped. The world around her slowed down to a crawl until it got stuck in that moment, with her teetering over the floor, about to crash the wooden chair into the bucket, and him about to fire again.

...

. . .

"Are you sure about this?" - "Yes. I want her." - "She's broken." - "So I'll fix her. I'm going in."

. . .

...

Behind her, while the world ceased to make sense or adhere to how time worked, hollow, ghostly steps crept into her ears. Like a distant set of feet walking through a cave, muffled and far away. Closer, and closer, until the shape of a girl in her early twenties moved into view. Vibrant, copious green lock done up in ridiculous pigtails waved from her head, and she squatted down before Angela, arms across her knees. She wore some white dress shirt, and black hot pants, laden with shimmering devices. On her right arm, some manner of a bar code was tattooed into her skin. "Gee, fuck, Graves, that's a right mess, isn't it? Oh, don't try to, you know, talk. Think at me. Like, I know you're in there. What say you, wanna fuck that guy up a little? I mean, what think you, but you catch my drift..." She smiled, like this was all some game.

Was this the moment Dusty finally, irrevocably had snapped?

Dustoff: If this strange mint haired manifestation of the shattered mirror of her sanity really was just that, then... Well. At least she was cute. Insanity being cute was a plus, and Graves found herself staring as much as she could possibly stare, given that she seemed frozen in place, defying physics and whatever few laws of reality she knew. "How the fuck am I supposed to think at-" She began, her mental communication abilities more than a mite scattered. "What." She thought aloud, in a 'voice' like a far off whisper on a foggy day.

"Am I nuts now? Is my insanity a superpower?" Question after question, endlessly curious even as she was offered a chance at revenge...or, more accurately, freedom. "... Fuck it. I'm nuts, but nuts means I get to give this fucker what's coming. So yes, insanity godparent, I'd love to fuck him up good, what do I have to do?" It would have been disheartening how fast she accepted her break... Assuming she'd broken, that is, except she'd been walking that ledge all her life, and now, well, now was a chance for her to ruin someone else's life, and hey, he was a Narco, so it's not like it'd be bad karma.

Fiver: The pixie of her fevered dreams - or whatever she was - laughed, full of mirth. "See, that's the girl that snapped El Chupo's neck when he tried to rape her! Alright, alright, let me give you a hand. Oh, and my time's a little limited." She got up and walked over the frozen thug. No, not frozen - he was just moving at speed that was barely perceptible. "So, you get out of here, and on December fifteenth, get a coffee at 3rd Ave and 55rd street, New York. I'll see you there. With more time." She looked at his pistol for a moment, then poked the mag release with her index finger, and racked the slide. It did not move like it should. It did not sound like it should. Rather, the slide became a blurr, and from the look on her face, it was immensely taxing to force the weapon to cycle in its current state. Her long black glove covering her right arm shimmered in green light.

"Be there or be squ-" She disappeared, as if she had never been there.

...

. . .

"Bold. One for pick up?" - "Was the first window we have for a transport." - "Your call, Fives."

. . .

...

Dusty crashed into the bucket, and the wood splintered, leaving her on the ground, amidst a bundle of rope and shattered chair. The magazine fell from the Glock, and clattered across the wet floor, just like the ejected bullet flying through the air.

Click.

Dustoff: The location, the date, and the order stuck in her mind, them, and the appearance of the adorable angel of her insanity. Pain SANG inside her, but so did the sweet relief of being unbound, Dusty rising to her feet, more sluggish than ordinarily, but still quite fast given her current state. Water dripped, the Underboss' weapon discharged ineffectively and now without magazine or chambered round, and in her remaining eye, there was clarity. The lone hazel hued orb sharper than it was even when she was on her meds. Her thoughts clear, her actions precise, even for the injuries, she leveled a terrifyingly serene smile at her tormentor and would-be executioner.
"My turn, fucker." There wasn't a pause, no, she capitalized. She moved with clarity of thought. This was real, the pain was real... And HE was real, though he doubtless wished he wasn't. The violence she'd inflict upon him, the violence she DID inflict upon him, it was exquisitely satisfying, sexual, almost, though she'd never been a masochist. When she finally left... Well, she left with a bang. Mission accomplished, at cost, but the paycheck was worth it, this time, and still that date stuck in her head, Dusty murmuring softly to herself "New York, Third and 55th, Coffee. Fifteenth December." Like a mantra. Curiosity had been piqued, and adrenaline carried her feet without the woman using them focusing much.