Seravian
Androgynous Dragon
Warning: This piece contains a depiction of rape/gangbang. Discretion advised.
--
It began with an autumn breeze… The gentle caress of the mid-morning sun peering through the rustling leaves. The sound of birds chirping, the scurrying of squirrels.
Fallen leaves crunched and brush snapped as twenty tired men shambled along through the woods. Rifles –M1 Garand, standard issue— close to their chest. Awake before the crack of dawn, and on the move since, they were riddled with exhaustion and dehydration. The younger men among the group especially were struggling to keep up. However, they continued to push through the fatigue. Eyes constantly on the lookout for anything that might disrupt what little tranquility was offered here.
Mitch was one of the younger in the group; he was not totally wet behind the ears, but had enough field experience to know what to expect. He stayed positioned about the middle. Three others shared the position. They were charged with being the first line of defense, should something come at them from their right. The air was dry and sweat coated his brow. At times, there would be something different in the ambiance. Animal? Human? Hard to tell when exhaustion threatened to sink in the moment it found any weakness.
How much further? The question weighed heavily on his mind. Nobody dared ask the question, no matter how much they yearned for respite. It was best not to think about it. After all, regardless of experience, they had signed up for this, knew what they were getting into. They had no choice but to continue on and would reach their destination in due time. What good would whining do, but cause a minor disruption, or worse? Nobody dared to break the silence.
They walked another mile.
Before long, they came upon an old wooden archway, and what remained of a fence, along the path. An old shed, dilapidated and swallowed by weeds, sat a few feet beyond. Further still, a collapsed barn sitting in a small clearing. Long abandoned.
A scream pierced the woods.
All eyes turned. The youngest of the group –a man named Larry, if Mitch recalled correctly— had gotten his leg caught in a bear trap.
Prior to this expedition, during briefing they had been informed of rumors surrounding the people inhabiting this isolated settlement using traps to keep the soldiers away were true. As the unfortunate young man wailed and begged to be freed –a request that was answered by another young man—there seemed to be a shift in the air. Subtle. The breeze was still present, but now there was a sense of unease. The men stood alert, rifles at the ready.
The crack of a gun. One man dropped to the ground with a hole in his chest; the bullet went straight through the heart.
Immediately, the group dispersed, scattering like rats. Too dangerous to stay as one. Mitch took refuse behind a leaning tree. It was thin and looked like a strong breeze might knock it over, but cover was cover.
Larry, freed from the trap, struggled to move quick enough. His life, too, was snuffed out by a bullet.
Mitch looked every which way, lips a thin line on his face and eyes hard. He heard the sound of someone coming before he saw them, out of the corner of his eye. Machete held high, the man yelled and swung. Mitch gasped. He didn't have time to fire his rifle as the blade connected with his neck, at the collarbone and down his chest. He lost his footing and instinctively reached for the man. The two went tumbling to the ground.
Shouts rang in the young solder's ears. Gunfire echoed. As Mitch fought to wrench the blade out of the man's hands. Hot pain made it difficult to focus. The wetness of blood making the area around his chest feel thick. He gritted and barred his teeth. All he saw was the man he was fighting with. It was a fight of equal strength. He could see the man was struggling just as hard, eyes wide, bulging, face turning red. The two thrashed and punched at each other, still on the ground.
The two rolled, and now Mitch was on top of his attacker, driving the blade of the machete toward his throat. Determination and will fueled him. He gave one final push, and the blade found its mark. Blood spilled from the man's neck. The man howled and went limp. Growling, Mitch drove the blade deeper, deeper, until the man stopped moving. Now gazing up at the young soldier with lifeless eyes and his head nearly severed.
He lay on his back, taking deep breaths to compose himself. Slowly, he sat up and, retrieving his rifle, got to his feet just as a bullet whizzed by, inches from his head.
Three of his group lay dead. So far, only the man he killed and two other gunmen were confirmed. Someone moved behind the barn. He clenched his jaw and weaved through trees, trying to catch up to them. His heart raced. Focus unwavering. He rounded the barn, aimed his rifle, and found himself staring down one of his comrades. Brian, he believed his name was. The man eased and held a finger to his lips, then pointed toward a section of collapsed wall.
Mitch nodded and followed behind.
When they peered inside, the first thing Mitch noticed was a group of ten people huddled against the wall on far end, near some debris. Before going any further, he saw something move out of an old stable. He turned to see a man with a pistol ducking behind some barrels. The young soldier waited for him to try to emerge, then aimed his rifle and fired. The man dropped. Brian clapped him on the shoulder then moved to where the man had fallen, and confirmed his death with a satisfied smirk.
The group huddled closer together, muttering, as the two soldiers approached them. Some looked away, others held their hands up in surrender. An elderly man sat huddled under a handmade blanket, clutching a beaded necklace to his chest, whispering something –a prayer, perhaps? Two others joined him. They were all unarmed. Hazarding a guess, these people must have been refugees. All seeking shelter in a place war had not completely ravaged. Were the locals protecting them? Why?
Mitch looked at his comrade, who met his gaze in return. He opened his mouth to speak, asking what should be done. What if they were refugees? In response, Brian licked his lips, took aim, and proceeded to open fire at the group. The young soldier drew in a deep breath, then took aim as well. The barn erupted into a cacophony of gunshots and panic as, one after another, the people of the group met their end. Now a pile of bloodied corpses. Bullet holes decorated the old barn's wall.
As the two turned to leave, he noticed one survivor. The old man.
He put a hole in his skull.
The two met up with the remaining members of the group and gave an account of what happened. Mitch nodded obediently when Brian asked him to confirm that the people in the barn had, in fact, been armed and dangerous.
Their movements carried urgency as they moved further along the path. A more serious air was about them now. Ever vigilant. And rightfully so. More traps awaited them: a log that had been tied up, and several more bear traps. They were all well-hidden and meticulously placed, but were nonetheless avoided. Soon, the group reached their destination.
Compared to what had been described, the settlement was small. It consisted of only a few houses, a church, and some farm land. The entire area was eerily quiet.
No sooner had they set foot near the perimeter, more gunshots rang out. Again, the group scattered. No casualties this time. However, there was less cover now. Less trees to hide behind. The entire settlement sat in a large clearing; humans had leveled the area to make it a suitable place to live. Only the buildings could serve as cover, if they could get close. Getting close was the hard part.
As they moved on, losing another one of their own in the process, they realized their disadvantage. The man in charge ordered two to break off and try to go in from the side.
The man in charge, Derek, ordered Mitch to run off with six others, toward one of the houses where gunfire was coming from. One of them was Brian, who stayed ahead of them. Bullets whizzed by the group as they charged forth. Mitch's heart pounded in his ears. The gash on his chest throbbed. Thoughts of home clawed at the edges of his mind.
One bullet struck him in the shoulder. He staggered, hissed, and fell to the ground. Someone he was with pulled him to his feet, shouting at him to keep moving. His feet felt like they were being weighed down. He was sweating. Mouth was dry. His focus was starting to become fuzzy. But the house was not much further. He could rest a spell once he got there. He told himself this over and over, and that kept him moving.
Indeed, it was calm and quiet in the house.
Or at least it was until Brian emerged from upstairs, dragging a screaming woman. Her hair was a mess, her dress dirty and torn. Her feet were bare. Tears streamed down her face, eyes wide with terror as she looked at the group. Brian grinned at the group of four, clearly happy with his prize, before throwing the woman onto the floor. She tried to scurry away, pleading, praying to a God that would not save her.
Mitch watched as the four other men all grinned at Brian, who had taken to strutting circles around the woman. Kicking her every now and then. The four others closed in on her. Their humanity had vacated their eyes. They cackled like crazed hyenas as Brian pounced on the woman. He tore at her dress and undergarments, leaving her bare. Next, he undid his belt and unzipped his pants The woman fought back, kicking Brian. She was quickly restrained by another man.
Brian forced the woman to look him in the eye as he thrusted into her. The others around were cheering him on, giving him advice. He slung insults: whore, bitch, cunt. Comments were made on her 'tight pussy' and how Brian wished her husband could see her like this. The woman tried to fight back, yelling until her voice gave out. But nothing thwarted Brian from getting what he wanted. He finished, got off of her, and looked to the other men.
One by one, the men took their turn ravaging the woman. There was laughter from them. The woman's hoarse sobs turned silent. Mitch realized she was looking at him. He, standing by the entrance, who chose to simply observe all this.
Quietly, he left the house.
He shivered. The gunfire had stopped and death clung to the air, weighing down heavily. He took a look around to assess things, noticing that several villagers had been rounded up and placed in the square. From the looks of things, they had been successful in taking this place. If so, then this mission was turning out to be a lot easier than expected. Good. The sooner he got out of here, the better. A nice, cool drink of water would be nice right about now.
Darek was still alive. He called Mitch over the moment he spotted him. He hurried without hesitation. No questions regarding what went down in the house were asked. Instead, he was instructed to kill each and every person they had rounded up. Unlike the people in the barn, these folks sat glaring at him, defiance set on their expressions. Refusing to surrender even after being caught.
As he was coming down to the last few, something was thrown in front of him. A grenade. He swore and instinctively turned on his heel, just as something hit him in the back of the head. He dropped to the ground instantly.
When he came to, he was met with someone calling his name. His body ached. Relief that he was alive reached him. He jolted and sat up, looking the man in the eye. It was one of the older men in the group –Jack. He looked from Jack's face, to his surroundings. Everything was on fire. The bodies of his group and those they had gathered lay scattered on the ground.
Someone came up from behind Jack, grabbed him, and slit his throat. Mitch tried to sit up again, and soon found himself being dragged to his feet by Jack's assailant.
Two others joined them. They began to walk him through the wreckage. He was groggy and bleary-eyed, his body heavy with fatigue and pain. Any time he slipped, a fist would ram his back, encouraging him to keep moving. They seemed to be taking him to the church, which was surprisingly intact. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the waning sun cast a radiant glow over it.
Once inside, they dragged him to the altar and threw him onto the ground. There were others inside as well, sitting in the pews. As he suspected, these people were survivors, what remained of the villagers. Their guns sat beside them.
Mitch was not a religious man, but he swore the man standing before the altar resembled Jesus. Or perhaps one of his disciples.
Another man wearing a mask and carrying a whip emerged. Mitch's hands were tied behind his back before he was thrown to the floor.
'Jesus' addressed the crowd, saying that the ones who dared ravage the village would face justice. The crowd cheered and sang praises to God. God was good. God punished all wrong-doers. They began to throw things at Mitch, who was beginning to fade in and out of consciousness. Exhaustion was beginning to catch up to him. They were shouting in addition to throwing things. He wasn't sure what was being said, however, as their voices sounded as one.
How long this went on, he could not say. Something made them stop.
They began to cry that God had appeared. Mitch dared to look, and found himself staring at a man descending into the room cloaked in silver light. He wore old robes that might be worn by someone from the biblical era and a silver mask.
The man bent down and caressed Mitch's face. Something about his touch felt soothing… Images of home flashed through his mind. He felt his entire body relax as he looked into the man's eyes… Wait, was something moving under the mask?
Tendrils began to snake around him. He didn't notice until they started to burrow into the gash on his chest. He screamed and thrashed. 'Jesus' and the others laughed, encouraged him not to resist God's love. Mitch cried out and squeezed his eyes shut. He thrashed, feebly attempting to free himself, when he was suddenly overcome by a calming sensation. It tingled at first, then calmed him once again.
A white light flashed.
Mitch blinked, and suddenly he was on the ground, by some rocks. The sky was dark. He groaned. This drew the attention of someone else near him. Derek, whose face was bloodied. A few men, bloodied and battered, sat around a fire. They were all staring at him. Evidently, Derek had gathered the remaining members of the group and settled here to rest.
He sat there, distant, unresponsive when anyone tried to talk to him.
A breeze rustled the trees. The fire flickered. He swore he saw a man wearing a mask, standing several feet away, in the darkness.
--
It began with an autumn breeze… The gentle caress of the mid-morning sun peering through the rustling leaves. The sound of birds chirping, the scurrying of squirrels.
Fallen leaves crunched and brush snapped as twenty tired men shambled along through the woods. Rifles –M1 Garand, standard issue— close to their chest. Awake before the crack of dawn, and on the move since, they were riddled with exhaustion and dehydration. The younger men among the group especially were struggling to keep up. However, they continued to push through the fatigue. Eyes constantly on the lookout for anything that might disrupt what little tranquility was offered here.
Mitch was one of the younger in the group; he was not totally wet behind the ears, but had enough field experience to know what to expect. He stayed positioned about the middle. Three others shared the position. They were charged with being the first line of defense, should something come at them from their right. The air was dry and sweat coated his brow. At times, there would be something different in the ambiance. Animal? Human? Hard to tell when exhaustion threatened to sink in the moment it found any weakness.
How much further? The question weighed heavily on his mind. Nobody dared ask the question, no matter how much they yearned for respite. It was best not to think about it. After all, regardless of experience, they had signed up for this, knew what they were getting into. They had no choice but to continue on and would reach their destination in due time. What good would whining do, but cause a minor disruption, or worse? Nobody dared to break the silence.
They walked another mile.
Before long, they came upon an old wooden archway, and what remained of a fence, along the path. An old shed, dilapidated and swallowed by weeds, sat a few feet beyond. Further still, a collapsed barn sitting in a small clearing. Long abandoned.
A scream pierced the woods.
All eyes turned. The youngest of the group –a man named Larry, if Mitch recalled correctly— had gotten his leg caught in a bear trap.
Prior to this expedition, during briefing they had been informed of rumors surrounding the people inhabiting this isolated settlement using traps to keep the soldiers away were true. As the unfortunate young man wailed and begged to be freed –a request that was answered by another young man—there seemed to be a shift in the air. Subtle. The breeze was still present, but now there was a sense of unease. The men stood alert, rifles at the ready.
The crack of a gun. One man dropped to the ground with a hole in his chest; the bullet went straight through the heart.
Immediately, the group dispersed, scattering like rats. Too dangerous to stay as one. Mitch took refuse behind a leaning tree. It was thin and looked like a strong breeze might knock it over, but cover was cover.
Larry, freed from the trap, struggled to move quick enough. His life, too, was snuffed out by a bullet.
Mitch looked every which way, lips a thin line on his face and eyes hard. He heard the sound of someone coming before he saw them, out of the corner of his eye. Machete held high, the man yelled and swung. Mitch gasped. He didn't have time to fire his rifle as the blade connected with his neck, at the collarbone and down his chest. He lost his footing and instinctively reached for the man. The two went tumbling to the ground.
Shouts rang in the young solder's ears. Gunfire echoed. As Mitch fought to wrench the blade out of the man's hands. Hot pain made it difficult to focus. The wetness of blood making the area around his chest feel thick. He gritted and barred his teeth. All he saw was the man he was fighting with. It was a fight of equal strength. He could see the man was struggling just as hard, eyes wide, bulging, face turning red. The two thrashed and punched at each other, still on the ground.
The two rolled, and now Mitch was on top of his attacker, driving the blade of the machete toward his throat. Determination and will fueled him. He gave one final push, and the blade found its mark. Blood spilled from the man's neck. The man howled and went limp. Growling, Mitch drove the blade deeper, deeper, until the man stopped moving. Now gazing up at the young soldier with lifeless eyes and his head nearly severed.
He lay on his back, taking deep breaths to compose himself. Slowly, he sat up and, retrieving his rifle, got to his feet just as a bullet whizzed by, inches from his head.
Three of his group lay dead. So far, only the man he killed and two other gunmen were confirmed. Someone moved behind the barn. He clenched his jaw and weaved through trees, trying to catch up to them. His heart raced. Focus unwavering. He rounded the barn, aimed his rifle, and found himself staring down one of his comrades. Brian, he believed his name was. The man eased and held a finger to his lips, then pointed toward a section of collapsed wall.
Mitch nodded and followed behind.
When they peered inside, the first thing Mitch noticed was a group of ten people huddled against the wall on far end, near some debris. Before going any further, he saw something move out of an old stable. He turned to see a man with a pistol ducking behind some barrels. The young soldier waited for him to try to emerge, then aimed his rifle and fired. The man dropped. Brian clapped him on the shoulder then moved to where the man had fallen, and confirmed his death with a satisfied smirk.
The group huddled closer together, muttering, as the two soldiers approached them. Some looked away, others held their hands up in surrender. An elderly man sat huddled under a handmade blanket, clutching a beaded necklace to his chest, whispering something –a prayer, perhaps? Two others joined him. They were all unarmed. Hazarding a guess, these people must have been refugees. All seeking shelter in a place war had not completely ravaged. Were the locals protecting them? Why?
Mitch looked at his comrade, who met his gaze in return. He opened his mouth to speak, asking what should be done. What if they were refugees? In response, Brian licked his lips, took aim, and proceeded to open fire at the group. The young soldier drew in a deep breath, then took aim as well. The barn erupted into a cacophony of gunshots and panic as, one after another, the people of the group met their end. Now a pile of bloodied corpses. Bullet holes decorated the old barn's wall.
As the two turned to leave, he noticed one survivor. The old man.
He put a hole in his skull.
The two met up with the remaining members of the group and gave an account of what happened. Mitch nodded obediently when Brian asked him to confirm that the people in the barn had, in fact, been armed and dangerous.
Their movements carried urgency as they moved further along the path. A more serious air was about them now. Ever vigilant. And rightfully so. More traps awaited them: a log that had been tied up, and several more bear traps. They were all well-hidden and meticulously placed, but were nonetheless avoided. Soon, the group reached their destination.
Compared to what had been described, the settlement was small. It consisted of only a few houses, a church, and some farm land. The entire area was eerily quiet.
No sooner had they set foot near the perimeter, more gunshots rang out. Again, the group scattered. No casualties this time. However, there was less cover now. Less trees to hide behind. The entire settlement sat in a large clearing; humans had leveled the area to make it a suitable place to live. Only the buildings could serve as cover, if they could get close. Getting close was the hard part.
As they moved on, losing another one of their own in the process, they realized their disadvantage. The man in charge ordered two to break off and try to go in from the side.
The man in charge, Derek, ordered Mitch to run off with six others, toward one of the houses where gunfire was coming from. One of them was Brian, who stayed ahead of them. Bullets whizzed by the group as they charged forth. Mitch's heart pounded in his ears. The gash on his chest throbbed. Thoughts of home clawed at the edges of his mind.
One bullet struck him in the shoulder. He staggered, hissed, and fell to the ground. Someone he was with pulled him to his feet, shouting at him to keep moving. His feet felt like they were being weighed down. He was sweating. Mouth was dry. His focus was starting to become fuzzy. But the house was not much further. He could rest a spell once he got there. He told himself this over and over, and that kept him moving.
Indeed, it was calm and quiet in the house.
Or at least it was until Brian emerged from upstairs, dragging a screaming woman. Her hair was a mess, her dress dirty and torn. Her feet were bare. Tears streamed down her face, eyes wide with terror as she looked at the group. Brian grinned at the group of four, clearly happy with his prize, before throwing the woman onto the floor. She tried to scurry away, pleading, praying to a God that would not save her.
Mitch watched as the four other men all grinned at Brian, who had taken to strutting circles around the woman. Kicking her every now and then. The four others closed in on her. Their humanity had vacated their eyes. They cackled like crazed hyenas as Brian pounced on the woman. He tore at her dress and undergarments, leaving her bare. Next, he undid his belt and unzipped his pants The woman fought back, kicking Brian. She was quickly restrained by another man.
Brian forced the woman to look him in the eye as he thrusted into her. The others around were cheering him on, giving him advice. He slung insults: whore, bitch, cunt. Comments were made on her 'tight pussy' and how Brian wished her husband could see her like this. The woman tried to fight back, yelling until her voice gave out. But nothing thwarted Brian from getting what he wanted. He finished, got off of her, and looked to the other men.
One by one, the men took their turn ravaging the woman. There was laughter from them. The woman's hoarse sobs turned silent. Mitch realized she was looking at him. He, standing by the entrance, who chose to simply observe all this.
Quietly, he left the house.
He shivered. The gunfire had stopped and death clung to the air, weighing down heavily. He took a look around to assess things, noticing that several villagers had been rounded up and placed in the square. From the looks of things, they had been successful in taking this place. If so, then this mission was turning out to be a lot easier than expected. Good. The sooner he got out of here, the better. A nice, cool drink of water would be nice right about now.
Darek was still alive. He called Mitch over the moment he spotted him. He hurried without hesitation. No questions regarding what went down in the house were asked. Instead, he was instructed to kill each and every person they had rounded up. Unlike the people in the barn, these folks sat glaring at him, defiance set on their expressions. Refusing to surrender even after being caught.
As he was coming down to the last few, something was thrown in front of him. A grenade. He swore and instinctively turned on his heel, just as something hit him in the back of the head. He dropped to the ground instantly.
When he came to, he was met with someone calling his name. His body ached. Relief that he was alive reached him. He jolted and sat up, looking the man in the eye. It was one of the older men in the group –Jack. He looked from Jack's face, to his surroundings. Everything was on fire. The bodies of his group and those they had gathered lay scattered on the ground.
Someone came up from behind Jack, grabbed him, and slit his throat. Mitch tried to sit up again, and soon found himself being dragged to his feet by Jack's assailant.
Two others joined them. They began to walk him through the wreckage. He was groggy and bleary-eyed, his body heavy with fatigue and pain. Any time he slipped, a fist would ram his back, encouraging him to keep moving. They seemed to be taking him to the church, which was surprisingly intact. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the waning sun cast a radiant glow over it.
Once inside, they dragged him to the altar and threw him onto the ground. There were others inside as well, sitting in the pews. As he suspected, these people were survivors, what remained of the villagers. Their guns sat beside them.
Mitch was not a religious man, but he swore the man standing before the altar resembled Jesus. Or perhaps one of his disciples.
Another man wearing a mask and carrying a whip emerged. Mitch's hands were tied behind his back before he was thrown to the floor.
'Jesus' addressed the crowd, saying that the ones who dared ravage the village would face justice. The crowd cheered and sang praises to God. God was good. God punished all wrong-doers. They began to throw things at Mitch, who was beginning to fade in and out of consciousness. Exhaustion was beginning to catch up to him. They were shouting in addition to throwing things. He wasn't sure what was being said, however, as their voices sounded as one.
How long this went on, he could not say. Something made them stop.
They began to cry that God had appeared. Mitch dared to look, and found himself staring at a man descending into the room cloaked in silver light. He wore old robes that might be worn by someone from the biblical era and a silver mask.
The man bent down and caressed Mitch's face. Something about his touch felt soothing… Images of home flashed through his mind. He felt his entire body relax as he looked into the man's eyes… Wait, was something moving under the mask?
Tendrils began to snake around him. He didn't notice until they started to burrow into the gash on his chest. He screamed and thrashed. 'Jesus' and the others laughed, encouraged him not to resist God's love. Mitch cried out and squeezed his eyes shut. He thrashed, feebly attempting to free himself, when he was suddenly overcome by a calming sensation. It tingled at first, then calmed him once again.
A white light flashed.
Mitch blinked, and suddenly he was on the ground, by some rocks. The sky was dark. He groaned. This drew the attention of someone else near him. Derek, whose face was bloodied. A few men, bloodied and battered, sat around a fire. They were all staring at him. Evidently, Derek had gathered the remaining members of the group and settled here to rest.
He sat there, distant, unresponsive when anyone tried to talk to him.
A breeze rustled the trees. The fire flickered. He swore he saw a man wearing a mask, standing several feet away, in the darkness.