MenchiKatsu

The interludes are incidences which occur outside the normal flow of the story but which are intricately related to it. Since the interludes don't have to do with the main characters I decided to put them in this format. Some interludes can be violent and disturbing so please proceed with caution. Thank you!

In the faint light of the small fires which threw flickering shadows along the walls of the cistern in the sewers beneath Bastion Newell Chapman felt neither the cold of the drifting snow, nor the ferocity of the wind howling along the streets a hundred feet over his head. His eyes were glazed, the pupils expanded to the point his brown irises were mere slivers against the vivid purple his sclera had become.

His teeth had rotted and fallen out of his mouth which opened and closed rhythmically, like that of a fish lying in the sun, gasping for a breath it could not manage to draw. His hair was thin and wispy, like gauze atop his scabby head. Though he was barely twenty-five years old his skin was stretched taut over his bones like leather. A rasping cough tore through his frame, ripping pieces of his lungs and throat with it. Blood burst from his open mouth in a fine mist and dripped from the corners of his thin lips in rivulets.

He licked at this trickle of blood compulsively, his tongue flicking out and over his blood-specked, cracked lips repeatedly. A sound, more akin to the guttural croak of an animal than anything a human throat could make escaped his lips and his palsied, frantic hands searched through the ragged coat draped over his withered body more and more desperately until happening on the bag holding the objects of his need. He ignored the puddle of blood spreading from where he sat and the ragged pants still pooled around his ankles, his attention focused solely on the small bag in his coat pocket.

He dumped the cubes into his cupped hands greedily in front of his body, the destroyed nerves causing the bony appendages to shake violently and released a quavering sigh. His eyes closed as he rolled the objects in his hands back and forth like dice. One, he counted in some distant part of his mind where what remained of rational thought existed. He rolled one of the objects over with his thumb. Two. He found the next object. Three. He caressed the third object lovingly.

They were all there. All safe. All his. Suddenly his eyes shot open, and he pressed himself back against the wall frantically, staring nearly blindly around him suspiciously. There were several other denizens of the underdark huddled in the cistern, one of hundreds spaced throughout the sewers of Bastion. Tunnels branched out in all directions, each bringing in fresh water running through various filters from the city streets above to fill the cistern which then send the water along to the other cisterns along wide exit tunnels.

Unlike the sewers themselves, the cisterns were relatively clean. Much of the water used for drinking and watering within the city itself came from these giant stone receptacles. They also quickly became a refuge for those, like Newell himself, who needed to escape the dangers of the dark alleys and roving gangs and City Guard and the ravages of the cold in the city above.

 Unfortunately for many, they realized too late that the cisterns brought their own dangers as the group known as The Dregs rose to prominence. At first merely pushers of the drug they had created, Synthesia, they soon evolved into the de facto rulers of the cistern networks, bringing with them a form of terrible order. Beatings, rapes, and murders were around every corner and fear rippled through the cisterns and those who called them home.

While the Rule of Stone was harsh and merciless, if the proper deference was shown and the fees were paid, whether in labor, coin, or by spreading one’s legs, the cisterns were still a safer place to lay one’s head than the cruel streets above. They were also the best place to find Synthesia itself.

“This is the new version,” the big man had told Newell, holding a small paper bag tantalizingly in his hands.

“N-New?” Newell mumbled, scratching his arms raw with his dirty fingernails, leaving oozing furrows in his skin. “Whasonew?”

“Lookit this way, lilac,” the man said, referring to Newell by the common name for those addicted to Synthesia due to the color of their sclera. “If Synth was Bellona, full in th’ sky, this’d be Bellona and Cybeles both full at th’ same time.”

Newell tried to picture both of the moons full, their faces, one of deep pink, the other of brilliant silver shining down on him at the same time. With no common frame of reference as the event hadn’t happened since long before anyone in Bastion was born, not to mention his severe mental decay, he had trouble wrapping his mind around it. Still, he thought, failing to bring the image he needed to life, that seemed pretty incredible.

“I buy ‘t!” Newell enthused, holding one hand out and opening it, the silver coins within glinting in the dim light of the torches guttering along the wall.

“Nah, nah, nah, lilac,” the big man shook his head with a chuckle. “Maybe ye don’ get ‘t. This’ new. Ye’d be th’ first t’ try. This’ll take ye t’ places ye’d never known were there. This is th’ future. This’ a new high, lilac. For tha’, ye gotta pay more. 5 silver each an’ a minimum of 3 cubes. Tha’s 15 silver.”

“I don’ got dat,” Newell blinked at the coins in his hand, counting over and over and over in the hopes they would somehow grow in number. Still only nine.

“No, shit,” the big man intoned sarcastically.

“I can get more! I need jus’ a coupla hours!” Newell pawed at the big man’s arm desperately, his eyes not leaving the bag held away from him in the man’s hand. Newell had no idea where he’d come up with 6 denarii but his time was running out. Already his skin itched, his eyes felt as if they were on fire even more than usual and his feet felt like they were turning to puddles. The effects of the Synthesia wore off faster than ever before.

Back when he’d been him. Back when he had hopes and dreams and family and friends a cube would keep him in a state of euphoria for nearly a week. Now? Euphoria was a brief flash. A shining few minutes where nothing hurt. Where the world seemed to align with his thoughts like the finest watch made by the most skilled maker. Then it was gone, and the burn began. The effects of the cube kept the worst of the pain at bay, but for barely a day.

That day was almost over, and Newell could already feel the agony beginning as his guts twisted into knots and his fingers clenched into claws. Already violet tears were springing into the corners of his eyes and the coughing had begun, ripping his throat and lungs apart as his body tried desperately to expel the particles of Synthesia clinging like glass shards to his lungs and larynx and nose. The reality is he didn’t have a couple of hours. They both knew it.

“Coupla hours? Sorry,” the big man smirked at him. “This is hot stuff. I thought ye’d be th’ best choice t’ try out th’ new. We’ve been good an’ that means a lot t’ me, but if ye’ve not got th’ coin I’ll have t’ go to th’ next. This shit won’t be around in a coupla hours, my man.” The big man pushed Newell away coldly and shook his head. “Fuckin’ shame, too. Th’ high lasts for days, even for lilacs like you.”

“D-Days?” Newell stammered; his eyes focused on the paper bag swinging tantalizingly close.

“Yup,” the big man nodded. “Hardly any burn, either. Like I said, this’ a new world. Damn shame.”

“Please!” Newell grabbed the big man’s leg and held on as if his life depended on it because at this point it did, in fact, depend on it. “I’ll do whatever I got ta do!”

“Whatever?” The man glanced down at Newell with a smirk.

“Yes!” Newell stared up, eyes wide and bleeding purple tears down his pockmarked and sunken cheeks.

Newell groaned in pain around the big man’s penis in his mouth as the other man’s cock punched through the ring of his anus and into his bowels. Even through the agony of his ass being torn from the sudden un-lubed intrusion and the pain in his jaw from sucking the big man’s penis Newell’s eyes never left the bag held like a carrot on a stick before a hapless mule. For several long moments there were no sounds in the tunnel except the thrumming of skin on skin and labored breathing of the two men breeding their toy.

“He’s tight,” the big man’s friend grunted, finally burying himself completely inside Newell.

“Told ye it’d be worth it,” the big man grinned as his glans pressed into the back of Newell’s throat.

“Definitely,” the other man nodded, his cock moving in and out of Newell. “The’ blood’s a good lube after a bit.”

“Right?” the big man laughed as they reached a steady rhythm together, spit roasting the groaning man between them.

“I could do this all day,” the man in Newell’s ass groaned, grabbing Newell’s thin hips and pounding harder and faster.

“Yea, but we got other people t’ help,” the big man chuckled. “We need t’ finish up and get a move on. Lots o’ friends t’ meet! Lots o’ joy t’ bring!”

“Yer right,” the other man agreed, sliding harder and deeper and faster into Newell’s bleeding ass. Finally, with a groan the man finished. Newell felt the man explode inside him, filling his bowels with seed. A minute later the big man fucking his mouth came. Newell swallowed as quickly as he could to prevent himself from choking.