The Artifact: Chapter Eight
Yes, it's all puppies and rainbows here on out.
Chapter One Here
Chapter Eight: The Chip
The fear started the minute he turned his back. Never disobey an order. Never. Not ever. But it wasn’t an order, was it? And he wasn’t there anymore. He was betting on that magic staying with the place. Betting with each slow footstep not to be stopped.
Betting sounded like ‘begging’ in his mind, and it sort of was, because the fear was growing and gnawing at him. But the pain would have hit. By now. If it were an order. Now for sure. That jutting bit of brick marked the end of the magic shop’s foundation. He’d left the building.
Hadn’t he?
Spike realized he was panting, almost hyperventilating. He paused. He gave in to the urge to look behind him. There was no one there. How was he going to survive this walk to his crypt?
He snarled. Like a badass, that was how.
He stomped the rest of the way to the cemetery and laughed when filthy sewer-water splashed his legs. Mistress wouldn’t like that, would she? Filth and mud and grime. Old friends he’d been too long parted from! He’d get himself good and dirty, wouldn’t he? Smack a wall just to damage his oh-so-precious skin.
How they loved petting him and banging on about his silky smooth skin. Like he was a fucking poodle. He punched a wall. It felt great. He kissed the roughness on his knuckles and punched with the other hand, too, and jabbed his elbow, just to scrape it up.
He went straight to the caretaker’s shed in Restfield. It was the best free water pressure to be had, standing on a grate with the garden hose. Good spray nozzle. Nothing but the best for Sunnydale’s bustling burial business. Only cemeteries in the country making a killing re-selling vacated burial plots.
His rediscovered love for filthiness didn’t stop him from taking the longest shower of his unlife, cold water be damned
He rinsed and scrubbed with oily, pungent GoJo until his fingers were raw and bleeding and he couldn’t smell any trace of the brothel’s perfumes. He unhooked, unstuck and when necessary tore out the gems they’d studded his body with. He paused, regarding the silver ring in his cock. That he’d wait and tackle later. Everything had damn screw-backs. Took him too long to get the belly stud out. Quality stuff, he was sure. He had been throwing the jewels aside like trash. He came to his senses and gathered them up. Money was money. And a handful of diamonds was money. The sun was down and the blood stopped running by the time he was dry.
Never thought he’d feel so bloody nostalgic for his crypt. He stopped in the door, just breathing in the smell of it.
It was all over, wasn’t it? He pulled on a pair of his own jeans and a t-shirt, smelling of comforting cotton and tobacco. Wrella and her mind-games couldn’t reach him here. He looked over a scattering of chunky jewelry on the dresser top and selected the gaudiest, loudest skull ring.
Maybe he’d kick up the punk thing a notch again. Take the tools of prettiness and turn them against themselves. He found his old, stubby eyeliner pencil and heated it with his lighter. He smeared it heavy and haphazardly. Hoped he was doing a messy job of it. That would really piss off the groomers. Like spray paint on their Mona Lisa.
Next, he’d dye his hair some color not found in nature. Buzz it really fucking short, too.
He touched the back of his head, and froze. How would he explain to Buffy about the chip?
***
The pain was intense, blinding him, but if he passed out, it wasn’t for long. He was securely strapped to a hard wooden table, able only to writhe in place as they cut into him. They cut for a long time, and in a lot of places. He wanted to ask them what kind of whorehouse this was, but a hard leather bit kept him from doing more than grunting.
Sarcasm and vitriol were his favorite weapons. He felt more naked without them than he had when the whoremongers had taken his clothes.
That was days ago. In the intervening time, Spike hadn’t worn so much as his own body hair. Other people’s spunk and leavings were the only things he’d had on him and he was getting right sick of it.
Though maybe, considering the being strapped down and the torture, trying to escape hadn’t been too bright.
They cut his feet. It was a hot, intense pain, and odd to hear the bone scraping away under the file. Whatever they did, they kept him from blacking out. Had to be for the sadism of it. Surely their surgery would go easier without him writhing. His limbs were exhausted from struggle. Even his throat and mouth were sore from screaming into the gag.
They jabbed his cock with needles for what felt like a week. It felt swollen five times its size. He couldn’t see, though. A strap held his head down.
He would never snicker at a penis enlargement ad again.
Someone was sewing the skin on his arm when Mistress Wrella stood in front of him, except he hadn’t known her name at that time. Now his memory fills it in, and all the intimate knowledge of how many different ways he loathes her very being. She was holding something small between her thumb and forefinger. She tilted it and light sparked against tiny lines of gold. “What is this? We found it in your head.”
At a nod from her, an attendant removed the leather bit from his teeth. “You got it out, then? Good on you, ducks. And here I was going to give this spa a very bad review.”
“Was it a punishment device? My clerics say it was in the pain center of the brain.”
“It was a leash, but you don’t need that, do you, gorgeous? Got me right where you want me.” Spike rolled his hips meaningfully.
Wasted effort, really. Wrella dropped the chip in a bowl. “You will tell me all you know about it. That is a command.”
And Spike’s eyelids fluttered as a constriction started in his head, in his heart, in his lungs. He ground his teeth and cried out, but all his effort only earned a few seconds of delay. Gripped with horror at every word, at how they just tumbled out of him without editing, he told her about his capture, his humiliation, his alliance with the slayer. He told her everything he knew about the chip.
Continued >>
Chapter One Here
Chapter Eight: The Chip
The fear started the minute he turned his back. Never disobey an order. Never. Not ever. But it wasn’t an order, was it? And he wasn’t there anymore. He was betting on that magic staying with the place. Betting with each slow footstep not to be stopped.
Betting sounded like ‘begging’ in his mind, and it sort of was, because the fear was growing and gnawing at him. But the pain would have hit. By now. If it were an order. Now for sure. That jutting bit of brick marked the end of the magic shop’s foundation. He’d left the building.
Hadn’t he?
Spike realized he was panting, almost hyperventilating. He paused. He gave in to the urge to look behind him. There was no one there. How was he going to survive this walk to his crypt?
He snarled. Like a badass, that was how.
He stomped the rest of the way to the cemetery and laughed when filthy sewer-water splashed his legs. Mistress wouldn’t like that, would she? Filth and mud and grime. Old friends he’d been too long parted from! He’d get himself good and dirty, wouldn’t he? Smack a wall just to damage his oh-so-precious skin.
How they loved petting him and banging on about his silky smooth skin. Like he was a fucking poodle. He punched a wall. It felt great. He kissed the roughness on his knuckles and punched with the other hand, too, and jabbed his elbow, just to scrape it up.
He went straight to the caretaker’s shed in Restfield. It was the best free water pressure to be had, standing on a grate with the garden hose. Good spray nozzle. Nothing but the best for Sunnydale’s bustling burial business. Only cemeteries in the country making a killing re-selling vacated burial plots.
His rediscovered love for filthiness didn’t stop him from taking the longest shower of his unlife, cold water be damned
He rinsed and scrubbed with oily, pungent GoJo until his fingers were raw and bleeding and he couldn’t smell any trace of the brothel’s perfumes. He unhooked, unstuck and when necessary tore out the gems they’d studded his body with. He paused, regarding the silver ring in his cock. That he’d wait and tackle later. Everything had damn screw-backs. Took him too long to get the belly stud out. Quality stuff, he was sure. He had been throwing the jewels aside like trash. He came to his senses and gathered them up. Money was money. And a handful of diamonds was money. The sun was down and the blood stopped running by the time he was dry.
Never thought he’d feel so bloody nostalgic for his crypt. He stopped in the door, just breathing in the smell of it.
It was all over, wasn’t it? He pulled on a pair of his own jeans and a t-shirt, smelling of comforting cotton and tobacco. Wrella and her mind-games couldn’t reach him here. He looked over a scattering of chunky jewelry on the dresser top and selected the gaudiest, loudest skull ring.
Maybe he’d kick up the punk thing a notch again. Take the tools of prettiness and turn them against themselves. He found his old, stubby eyeliner pencil and heated it with his lighter. He smeared it heavy and haphazardly. Hoped he was doing a messy job of it. That would really piss off the groomers. Like spray paint on their Mona Lisa.
Next, he’d dye his hair some color not found in nature. Buzz it really fucking short, too.
He touched the back of his head, and froze. How would he explain to Buffy about the chip?
***
The pain was intense, blinding him, but if he passed out, it wasn’t for long. He was securely strapped to a hard wooden table, able only to writhe in place as they cut into him. They cut for a long time, and in a lot of places. He wanted to ask them what kind of whorehouse this was, but a hard leather bit kept him from doing more than grunting.
Sarcasm and vitriol were his favorite weapons. He felt more naked without them than he had when the whoremongers had taken his clothes.
That was days ago. In the intervening time, Spike hadn’t worn so much as his own body hair. Other people’s spunk and leavings were the only things he’d had on him and he was getting right sick of it.
Though maybe, considering the being strapped down and the torture, trying to escape hadn’t been too bright.
They cut his feet. It was a hot, intense pain, and odd to hear the bone scraping away under the file. Whatever they did, they kept him from blacking out. Had to be for the sadism of it. Surely their surgery would go easier without him writhing. His limbs were exhausted from struggle. Even his throat and mouth were sore from screaming into the gag.
They jabbed his cock with needles for what felt like a week. It felt swollen five times its size. He couldn’t see, though. A strap held his head down.
He would never snicker at a penis enlargement ad again.
Someone was sewing the skin on his arm when Mistress Wrella stood in front of him, except he hadn’t known her name at that time. Now his memory fills it in, and all the intimate knowledge of how many different ways he loathes her very being. She was holding something small between her thumb and forefinger. She tilted it and light sparked against tiny lines of gold. “What is this? We found it in your head.”
At a nod from her, an attendant removed the leather bit from his teeth. “You got it out, then? Good on you, ducks. And here I was going to give this spa a very bad review.”
“Was it a punishment device? My clerics say it was in the pain center of the brain.”
“It was a leash, but you don’t need that, do you, gorgeous? Got me right where you want me.” Spike rolled his hips meaningfully.
Wasted effort, really. Wrella dropped the chip in a bowl. “You will tell me all you know about it. That is a command.”
And Spike’s eyelids fluttered as a constriction started in his head, in his heart, in his lungs. He ground his teeth and cried out, but all his effort only earned a few seconds of delay. Gripped with horror at every word, at how they just tumbled out of him without editing, he told her about his capture, his humiliation, his alliance with the slayer. He told her everything he knew about the chip.
Continued >>