Duty | WS

-- Published this post for the sake of having it out there. Total WIP (Work in Progress).

The torturer stood straight, looking out to the city below. Silence's only company was that of the heavy breathing from the prisoner laying lamely on the floor. To the abused man this woman was his last link to the world of the living and also the one that held the key to the door of eternal death. Mentally, she slide her finger along this key as she slowly pulled her lower lip through her teeth, pondering if she should finally release the hold and let this man part to the afterlife. With an almost childish feel she giggled as she let the mental image of releasing him drop.

The sound of dripping water began to mesh with the mans breathing. He was starting to recover from the last 'questioning'. The prisoners name meant little, so little that he was referred to as cell 18. This was a dungeon that consisted of 25 of these such rooms and were reserved only for the use and containment of highly prized information contained in human vessels. The tortures name meant so much it wasn't even spoken; it evoked fear to a degree that's never known until you become her prisoner. Vespette, better known in short as Vesp, was this such woman. A specialist in torture. A weapon.

Vesp turned quickly and within two steps closed the distance between herself and the man that now had managed to struggle to his knees. He blinked slowly. By the looks of it he might have more of his blood across the floor then beating in him now. His eyes moved slowly, dully, like a person would that knew the sun would never rise again.

-----

A single tear rolled down her emotionless face slowly, occasionally stalling as if it were looking back from its origin, curious as to why she didn't show more feeling. Blink. Again, her face showed emotionless but the temperature of her skin rose sharply, making quick do to the slight moistness left by the tear as it departed from her chin. Blink.

Her name was Rachel though not many knew her by this name. Many, many more knew her as Vespette. She peered out of her tiny circular window into the surrounding city. With pure concentration she turned her head back toward the door and gave a single nod. The solider standing there returned the gesture and quickly left the room with two servants close at hand. The sound of a bolt sliding to place on the other side was all that could be heard; it rang throughout the small dungeon. Chains where a common wall decoration here, along with a small pile of incredibly old hay and a shallow dish that carried a little water. In the center of the room was a chair, made of cold stone carved from the floor itself with a weary man in rags. His head was slouched to the side; there was no energy left in him, only a glimmering hope that one day it would all end.

As Rachel turned to her prisoner he made a struggled attempt at looking in her eyes. She quickly averted her view to a rake of different utensils and took a few meticulous steps towards it. Once she was sure his gaze dropped back down she again stepped closer with a vial of dark liquid that had a blue haze about it.

"You already know what I'm going to ask. Please. Answer," she whispered to him. After removing the small cork from the vial she let a single drop land on his dirty hand. Instantly his skin began to rupture and bleed as the fluid tore into him. Suddenly full of energy he kicked his head back and let out a heart wrenching scream. The pain was so intense his rags would contort and shift as his muscles fired independently under them, attempted to wrench themselves from his own body and the pain. Air came to him in sharp frantic heaves that slowly dulled into deep panting as his hand stopped rupturing. Tears flowed freely from him and he slowly rose his shaking hand toward her only to be stopped by the chains that held him. Still, he tired, pushing against the chains with whatever power he had left. The last of his strength quickly shifted to nothing more then a jerkier hand. His entire body shivered and his eyes were held tightly shut.

The gentle resonance of her voice helped him slowly open his eyes. Rachel could only look with a shield of imaginary confidence in what she was doing. That her actions were justified. She turned back to the window, taking a few steps and angling her face so she could see her reflection in the void-like window. She has a calm, collective look on her face, with eyes that appeared like they could of been a sign of sure death. She hated it. The look, the feelings she was holding deep in her. Hated it. Some say it's a strong word to use; hate, but this was against everything she was.


Comments from me to me;
The character is flat. Following a plot and not the people it has in it. Develop both characters.
Note for improvement; Pre-this add in a case where Rachel goes about her 'average' torture routine. During her encounter with the person in this story there needs to be a better impression that she has meet this person before. Create that tie. For the part after this show a deeper connection when shes alone. (Possibly shine a little light on her newest prisoner?) Then back to an 'average' day for her?