Chapter Text
“Do you like games?”
The disembodied voice caught Franco off guard, jolting violently as he stirred and fell out of his bed. Ever since he's been stuck here in Sinyala (his dumbass got captured by the Murkoff Corporation apparently), he's been poked and prodded so many times he lost count. Inject this, inflict that, all the shit they did to him just made his already grotesque figure even more abhorrent. He fucking hated it here.
Rubbing his aching head, he groaned in pain. “I know one. It's called "Snap the Hallucination's Neck.” Getting back on his feet, he started counting his fingers. Eight, nine, ten. Still ten, no double vision. He looked around the cell, nothing. Was this an auditory hallucination? Must be.
He's been so lonely lately. No signs of Mama Goose and her disgusting puppet father, or even that bastard pig cop or the incest twin fuckers. They haven't let any of them be together in trials in ages, what'd they call it again? Prime time? ‘Cause they're prime assets, haha. What a crock of shit. Everything here is full of shit. At first it wasn't so bad because they gave him everything he wanted. His Lupara, target practice, his vices (an entire functioning factory at that), unlimited bakelite hooker snatch, you name it. All of the milky white in the world couldn't mask how shitty and inhumane this place was. He knows he's not seeing the light of day again.
Out of sheer curiosity, the voice calls out again.
“You don't wanna play?” It sounded offended, hurt even. The unmistakable feminine pitch and aloofness made him want to strangle it more.
“You can play with my Lupara up your ass after you choke on my cock, you filthy whore.” As predicted, a gasp of astonishment came from…Somewhere.
“You're really mean.” An audible pout. He looked up, before his eyes settled on the closed vent above his bed.
“You hidin’ in my vents like a fuckin’ rat? What a fuckin’ pussy, even for a figment of my imagination–”
“I'm real.” He grunted in annoyance at being interrupted. His temper was getting worse, and this…Unseeable bitch of a whore was just here, just to taunt him.
“Sure you're real, just like Santa Claus.”
“Who's that?”
“Oh my godddddd,” he groaned, hands covering his face. “And you're dimmer than a broken fuckin’ lightbulb. Fucking great. Can't even see you, can't fuck you, can't get any entertainment.”
The voice was humming in thought. “What if…I could prove it to you that I'm real?”
“I'll be amazed, kiddo. Impress me.”
He waited in silence, hands laced across his belly as he laid on his bed.
“Let's play a game. If you can tell me what number I'm thinking of–”
“Nine.”
“Bzzt! Wrong!” The voice cheerily sung. He found himself wondering if he choked himself out, would this broad disappear? The wry laugh in his head was all his own, thankfully.
“Well, you might be something else. How t'fuck am I supposed to cheat if I can't know what you're thinking?” As he voiced his logic, the realization dawned on him. Sweat beaded down his head and his heart sped up.
“Holy shit, you're not me.” He laughed in disbelief, astonished that someone, something, anything had found him and struck a conversation. “Well, what's the number?”
“Seven. You were really close though. Hi!” He could hear the smile and oddly enough, he could stand to bear the annoying voice for a bit longer.
“Hiya sweet thing. Why don't you come down here? I just wanna get a closer look,” he lied as naturally as he breathed.
Something in the vents shifted, as if contemplating something. “Technically, I'm already there. Who are you, by the way?”
Strange.
“I'll introduce myself if I can see the face of the pretty voice. Don't be a buzzkill, doll. C'mon.” He started to get impatient by the way his fingers slowly curled up into a fist. He wanted Lupara badly, but Easterman had locked his baby up in his office outside of trials. Fuckin’ asshole. He opted for his pacifier to calm himself, unaware his visitor could probably see him through the vent slots.
“You're gonna squash me if I do, immediately. You have something down there that's mine.”
“What, scared of a little baby? All's I want is just a friend, a hug…” he sounded absolutely downright lethal with how sickly sweet he was being.
“You do not look like a baby at all.” At that, he snapped his head up best as he could to glare up at the vent.
“You fucking asshole, you can see me but I can't see you?! What kind of game is this shit? This shit ain't fair, not fair at all!” He bit down on his binky, chewing stressfully. “Get the fuck out of my room. If you're not going to come down, then scram. Run along little slimy reagent, run. Before the doctors get ya.” he taunted, throwing his hands up in a fit before folding them under each other.
“Not until I get what's mine back first.” The voice seemed persistent, unwavering. He could feel the migraine coming on.
“Finder's keepers.”
“NO!” The voice screeched, a gasp leading to silence as if they realized their mistaken outburst.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, you scream like a fuckin’ banshee.” Curious, he looked around the room, sitting up to see what the fuss was all about.
“Everything in here is goddamn mine. You're off your rocker, crazy bitch.”
“Where'd you get that on your nightstand?” It probed, drawing his attention to the table. On it were his magazines, a dirty cup, his reading lamp and a small brown and white shell from last night's dinner.
For some unknown reason, they had decided to treat their prime assets to a rare dinner of snail pasta. (Snails? Really?) It was disgusting, but he found one of the shells pretty, so he kept it. Oddly enough, it was frustrating that there was no meat inside it unlike the others when he ate last night. A fuckin’ dud. Hollow and pathetic, almost like him. At least it looked pretty, unlike himself.
He somehow envied the little shell.
“You got eyes, be more specific.” As he spat out his demand, the voice started to make a hm noise, as if debating.
“Mmmm–Nevermind.” It sheepishly admitted, a timid chuckle leaving the vents. He was getting fed up again.
Before he lost his temper for the thousandth time, he carefully stared at the shell. It had to be it. It's the only new thing and it seemed personal enough. Why? He doesn't fucking know and doesn't fucking care. Point of the fucking matter is, it's fucking his now.
He decided his interloper had overstayed their welcome.
“I'm gonna count to three, and if you don't leave, I'll climb up there and chase you myself. One.” Just because he couldn't actually reach that high without balancing himself cautiously on some furniture, they didn't need to know that.
Striking fear into the stranger, he laughed as he heard a scream followed by scampering trailing away before he got to finish. Damn.
They'll be back. If the persistence said anything, of course they would. He wouldn't put it past them to sneak in and steal the thing while he was gone during a trial. Simple fix, just make sure the shit stays with him. Being vindictive was his bread and butter, anger was his nectar.
Two can play many games. Good, because he's been feelin’ awfully lonely.