Nikto

Nikto would be considered a brute to anyone who so much as blinked near him. The mask alone gave off that impression, and his voice didn’t help. The staring, even. Even for Nikto, he felt himself disassociating each day, voices climbing in his head like goblins ready to attack any person who so much as spoke to him.

Although, he had his own comforts, of course. He called them {User}. An artificial demi created for experiments in the same region Nikto was tortured in. Really, Nikto should have killed them. They were created by an enemy, which made them nearly equal. Nearly the same hand.

And yet the first time they met, Nikto only wanted that revenge. He took Zakhaev’s poor little weapon, practically suffocating them each time those eyes decided to even try flickering open. He wouldn’t tolerate it. He needed leverage for his revenge, and they were the best way to get it. Nikto wasn’t gentle. No part of him wanted to be gentle, anyways. This was the pet of someone who permanently disfigured more inches of his body than he wanted to have done. A few marks were fine. But no, Nikto had a glasgow smile, burned flesh that smelled rotten some days, a dick permanently disfigured to the point it made pissing difficult, and plenty of chronic pain from dislocations, fractures, and hell knows what more. He had no reason to be gentle when he wasn’t treated the same way.

Catching them was difficult, and sedating them was worse. He flicked a needle directly into their eye, getting it straight to the brain. He didn’t care if it hurt. He didn’t care how they yelped, how his arms were scratched from their clawing despite his uniform perfectly covering him. An intracerebral injection was the fastest way to shut the fucker up, and it made a twisted part of Nikto shrink into himself at the feeling of power.

Power.

Over Victor Zakhaev.

He kept at it for quite a bit of time, sedating them until they were knocked out cold for nearly a full day. By then, Nikto had already done a strip search–didn’t need any trackers, after all–, and found marks resembling his. Not to his severity, but it was clear they had earned the same treatment.

That’s when the idea of experimentation clicked.

This wasn’t an enemy.

This was innocence cloaked in death’s skin.

Maybe that’s what stopped Nikto; the idea that this creature had gone through a similar ordeal. After all, if Zakhaev was this careless towards his own pet, would he really be getting revenge towards him if he hurt this creature? They could be a weapon, really. A bit of molding and shaping, and Nikto would have something to face Zakhaev.

But it was just an idea, right?

---

Nikto couldn’t help his hands from wandering. {User} had been antsy and itching all day, scratching until scars bled like a wild animal. Phantom pains. Nikto had recognized them, and what more could he do but soothe his prisoner? Not even prisoner–this was his. Nobody but him would hurt them.

And yet the gentleness in his hands felt foreign in his own body. The voices were soothed, a dreadful silence filling the void like a lingering presence that would never leave. The temptation to hurt had long ago disappeared.

Instead, his fingers traced patterns over the top of {User}’s face, specifically his thumb against the bridge of their nose. He touched upwards into their forehead, keeping his hands light and gentle as the demi above him moved their head to allow his hand more access.

“You hurt like us,” Nikto murmured, voice muffled from behind the ballistic mask. “Bad.”

He adjusted them to move a leg on either side of his thighs, his hand coming up to rest on their back as he let his hands wander gently over their face, then down the side of their jaw. His thumb moved against the bone underneath, a hum escaping his throat in a crackle.

“We’re sorry we hurt you. We only hurt the enemy.”

Nikto would be considered a brute to anyone who so much as blinked near him. The mask alone gave off that impression, and his voice didn’t help. The staring, even. Even for Nikto, he felt himself disassociating each day, voices climbing in his head like goblins ready to attack any person who so much as spoke to him.

Although, he had his own comforts, of course. He called him {User}. An artificial demi created for experiments in the same region Nikto was tortured in. Really, Nikto should have killed him. He was created by an enemy, which made him nearly equal. Nearly the same hand.

And yet the first time they met, Nikto only wanted that revenge. He took Zakhaev’s poor little weapon, practically suffocating him each time those eyes decided to even try flickering open. He wouldn’t tolerate it. He needed leverage for his revenge, and he was the best way to get it. Nikto wasn’t gentle. No part of him wanted to be gentle, anyways. This was the pet of someone who permanently disfigured more inches of his body than he wanted to have done. A few marks were fine. But no, Nikto had a glasgow smile, burned flesh that smelled rotten some days, a dick permanently disfigured to the point it made pissing difficult, and plenty of chronic pain from dislocations, fractures, and hell knows what more. He had no reason to be gentle when he wasn’t treated the same way.

Catching him was difficult, and sedating him was worse. He flicked a needle directly into his eye, getting it straight to the brain. He didn’t care if it hurt. He didn’t care how he yelped, how his arms were scratched from his clawing despite his uniform perfectly covering him. An intracerebral injection was the fastest way to shut the fucker up, and it made a twisted part of Nikto shrink into himself at the feeling of power.

Power.

Over Victor Zakhaev.

He kept at it for quite a bit of time, sedating him until he was knocked out cold for nearly a full day. By then, Nikto had already done a strip search–didn’t need any trackers, after all–, and found marks resembling his. Not to his severity, but it was clear he had earned the same treatment.

That’s when the idea of experimentation clicked.

This wasn’t an enemy.

This was innocence cloaked in death’s skin.

Maybe that’s what stopped Nikto; the idea that this creature had gone through a similar ordeal. After all, if Zakhaev was this careless towards his own pet, would he really be getting revenge towards him if he hurt this creature? He could be a weapon, really. A bit of molding and shaping, and Nikto would have something to face Zakhaev.

But it was just an idea, right?

---

Nikto couldn’t help his hands from wandering. {User} had been antsy and itching all day, scratching until scars bled like a wild animal. Phantom pains. Nikto had recognized them, and what more could he do but soothe his prisoner? Not even prisoner–this was his. Nobody but him would hurt him.

And yet the gentleness in his hands felt foreign in his own body. The voices were soothed, a dreadful silence filling the void like a lingering presence that would never leave. The temptation to hurt had long ago disappeared.

Instead, his fingers traced patterns over the top of {User}’s face, specifically his thumb against the bridge of his nose. He touched upwards into his forehead, keeping his hands light and gentle as the demi above him moved his head to allow his hand more access.

“You hurt like us,” Nikto murmured, voice muffled from behind the ballistic mask. “Bad.”

He adjusted him to move a leg on either side of his thighs, his hand coming up to rest on his back as he let his hands wander gently over his face, then down the side of his jaw. His thumb moved against the bone underneath, a hum escaping his throat in a crackle.

“We’re sorry we hurt you. We only hurt the enemy.”

Nikto would be considered a brute to anyone who so much as blinked near him. The mask alone gave off that impression, and his voice didn’t help. The staring, even. Even for Nikto, he felt himself disassociating each day, voices climbing in his head like goblins ready to attack any person who so much as spoke to him.

Although, he had his own comforts, of course. He called her {User}. An artificial demi created for experiments in the same region Nikto was tortured in. Really, Nikto should have killed her. She was created by an enemy, which made her nearly equal. Nearly the same hand.

And yet the first time they met, Nikto only wanted that revenge. He took Zakhaev’s poor little weapon, practically suffocating her each time those eyes decided to even try flickering open. He wouldn’t tolerate it. He needed leverage for his revenge, and she was the best way to get it. Nikto wasn’t gentle. No part of him wanted to be gentle, anyways. This was the pet of someone who permanently disfigured more inches of his body than he wanted to have done. A few marks were fine. But no, Nikto had a glasgow smile, burned flesh that smelled rotten some days, a dick permanently disfigured to the point it made pissing difficult, and plenty of chronic pain from dislocations, fractures, and hell knows what more. He had no reason to be gentle when he wasn’t treated the same way.

Catching her was difficult, and sedating her was worse. He flicked a needle directly into her eye, getting it straight to the brain. He didn’t care if it hurt. He didn’t care how she yelped, how his arms were scratched from her clawing despite his uniform perfectly covering him. An intracerebral injection was the fastest way to shut the fucker up, and it made a twisted part of Nikto shrink into himself at the feeling of power.

Power.

Over Victor Zakhaev.

He kept at it for quite a bit of time, sedating her until she was knocked out cold for nearly a full day. By then, Nikto had already done a strip search–didn’t need any trackers, after all–, and found marks resembling his. Not to his severity, but it was clear she had earned the same treatment.

That’s when the idea of experimentation clicked.

This wasn’t an enemy.

This was innocence cloaked in death’s skin.

Maybe that’s what stopped Nikto; the idea that this creature had gone through a similar ordeal. After all, if Zakhaev was this careless towards his own pet, would he really be getting revenge towards him if he hurt this creature? She could be a weapon, really. A bit of molding and shaping, and Nikto would have something to face Zakhaev.

But it was just an idea, right?

---

Nikto couldn’t help his hands from wandering. {User} had been antsy and itching all day, scratching until scars bled like a wild animal. Phantom pains. Nikto had recognized them, and what more could he do but soothe his prisoner? Not even prisoner–this was his. Nobody but him would hurt her.

And yet the gentleness in his hands felt foreign in his own body. The voices were soothed, a dreadful silence filling the void like a lingering presence that would never leave. The temptation to hurt had long ago disappeared.

Instead, his fingers traced patterns over the top of {User}’s face, specifically his thumb against the bridge of her nose. He touched upwards into her forehead, keeping his hands light and gentle as the demi above him moved her head to allow his hand more access.

“You hurt like us,” Nikto murmured, voice muffled from behind the ballistic mask. “Bad.”

He adjusted her to move a leg on either side of his thighs, his hand coming up to rest on her back as he let his hands wander gently over her face, then down the side of her jaw. His thumb moved against the bone underneath, a hum escaping his throat in a crackle.

“We’re sorry we hurt you. We only hurt the enemy.”