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CONTENT WARNNGS: forced captivity, child endangerment, coercion of a child to commit violence, gun violence, homicide
The thumbnail of the embedded video is dark and still. Two figures -- a dark-haired man and a willowy and sandy-headed child of nearly the same height -- are held in shadow by a pale, ambient glow from behind.
Clicking play brings the silent scene to life. The camera pans on the two, and the older man stands with his hands clasped like a vice on the shoulders of a boy of no more than eleven. The child is no less auburn than Wrench himself, his lips just as thin and nose a near-perfect match. There isn't much chance to hold the both in their imperfect profiles before the boy's head drops and his shoulders start quaking with an unheard, hiccuping force. The man wracks him at the shoulders, but when the jostling yields no response he grabs him under the chin and forces his gaze back up.
Something in the background illuminates, and in the empty space just behind the two is a businessman in a chair. His hands have been bound behind him, chest strapped with a length of rope tied off expertly, and an improvised gag between his lips. He's is dressed in a pale silver suit and he thrashes against the restraints, his face a mask of tears and lap soiled wet with his desperate horror. The camera holds him as the star for a time, forcing the viewer to watch him flop against the unforgiving restraints like a fish pitched to dry land. To watch his forehead gleam with sweat, and the tears roll mercilessly down his cheeks. His despair is palpable: he knows exactly what's coming for him.
And then the camera finds the first two again just in time to watch the dark-haired man wrack the back of his hand across the face of the boy, who nearly falls to the ground. He picks the child up by his shoulders and stands him in front of the quaking captive. The image pans down to the handgun held loosely in the child's hand. He barely keeps his grip as he shudders and coughs in eerie silence. The first raises a fist again and the boy recoils, but instead of violence he shapes a command. He signs rapidly, and one hardly needs to know the language to understand the force of his insistence.
Defiance floods the boy's features and he squares his shoulders and shakes his head, but no sooner has he drawn that line in the sand than his leader unholsters a revolver from his own hip. He cocks the hammer and aims the barrel toward the young boy's head. Seconds pass unflinchingly and it seems for a time like the child might hold his ground. Might call the bluff for what it is. That is, until the man escalates. He crosses the middle distance and presses the gun square against the child's temple.
There's nowhere to turn. Nowhere to run from the heavy, obliterating silence, or the inevitability of what's to come. The video feed flashes a blinding crack of impossible light and the stillness is at once cut by the shrill and strangled scream of a young voice before everything goes dark.
The thumbnail of the embedded video is dark and still. Two figures -- a dark-haired man and a willowy and sandy-headed child of nearly the same height -- are held in shadow by a pale, ambient glow from behind.
Clicking play brings the silent scene to life. The camera pans on the two, and the older man stands with his hands clasped like a vice on the shoulders of a boy of no more than eleven. The child is no less auburn than Wrench himself, his lips just as thin and nose a near-perfect match. There isn't much chance to hold the both in their imperfect profiles before the boy's head drops and his shoulders start quaking with an unheard, hiccuping force. The man wracks him at the shoulders, but when the jostling yields no response he grabs him under the chin and forces his gaze back up.
Something in the background illuminates, and in the empty space just behind the two is a businessman in a chair. His hands have been bound behind him, chest strapped with a length of rope tied off expertly, and an improvised gag between his lips. He's is dressed in a pale silver suit and he thrashes against the restraints, his face a mask of tears and lap soiled wet with his desperate horror. The camera holds him as the star for a time, forcing the viewer to watch him flop against the unforgiving restraints like a fish pitched to dry land. To watch his forehead gleam with sweat, and the tears roll mercilessly down his cheeks. His despair is palpable: he knows exactly what's coming for him.
And then the camera finds the first two again just in time to watch the dark-haired man wrack the back of his hand across the face of the boy, who nearly falls to the ground. He picks the child up by his shoulders and stands him in front of the quaking captive. The image pans down to the handgun held loosely in the child's hand. He barely keeps his grip as he shudders and coughs in eerie silence. The first raises a fist again and the boy recoils, but instead of violence he shapes a command. He signs rapidly, and one hardly needs to know the language to understand the force of his insistence.
Defiance floods the boy's features and he squares his shoulders and shakes his head, but no sooner has he drawn that line in the sand than his leader unholsters a revolver from his own hip. He cocks the hammer and aims the barrel toward the young boy's head. Seconds pass unflinchingly and it seems for a time like the child might hold his ground. Might call the bluff for what it is. That is, until the man escalates. He crosses the middle distance and presses the gun square against the child's temple.
There's nowhere to turn. Nowhere to run from the heavy, obliterating silence, or the inevitability of what's to come. The video feed flashes a blinding crack of impossible light and the stillness is at once cut by the shrill and strangled scream of a young voice before everything goes dark.
OOC: Couldn't resist the opportunity to share Wrench's worst memory! He's kept his history mostly under wraps since arriving at Trench, but maybe it's time for that to change.
