Chapter 13: Break into Three
The metallic reek of Karl’s cigarillo cut through the lingering scents of sex and blood as the truck bounced violently along the rutted track back towards the factory complex. Telemachus sat rigid in the passenger seat, the torn edges of his hoodie sleeve scratching his wrist. Every jolt sent a fresh wave of agony radiating from his abused core through his trembling legs. His black jeans, hastily pulled up but unzipped, chafed against the raw, swollen skin. He kept his gaze fixed on the rain-streaked windshield, the rhythmic sweep of the wipers hypnotic. Karl drove one-handed, the other draped possessively over the back of Telemachus’s seat, knuckles occasionally brushing his shoulder. The dragon on his back felt like a weight.
"Quiet, mutt," Karl grunted, not looking away from the muddy track slicing through the oppressive, fog-draped woods. "Thinkin'."
Telemachus remained statue-still, the kitsune mask still hanging broken around his neck. His throat ached with the phantom screams he couldn’t voice. He focused on the dull throb, the sticky wetness seeping into the denim, the jagged memory of Karl’s fingers inside him while the other man’s violation played on screen. A plan, fragile as a spiderweb, began to form in the numb void of his mind. The kiss. The healing. If he could just get Karl wounded, distracted… If he could touch that power… Then run.
The truck lurched through the towering iron gates of the factory compound, grinding gears echoing off cavernous metal walls. Inside, the air vibrated with the familiar, bone-deep hum of machinery – grinding gears, hissing steam, the distant clang of hammers on steel. It wasn't sanctuary; it was another cage. Karl parked haphazardly near a reinforced steel door leading deeper into the complex. He killed the engine, the sudden quiet amplifying the industrial symphony. He took a long drag on his cigarillo, the ember flaring in the gloom of the cab.
"Out," he ordered, opening his door. The cold, oil-scented air rushed in. Telemachus fumbled with the door handle, his movements stiff and painful. His clawed shoes scraped the running board as he slid down, wincing as his feet hit the concrete. He swayed, grabbing the truck’s hot flank for balance. Karl watched, a flicker of dark amusement in his eyes. "Walk it off, bitch. Ain't got all night."
Karl led the way, boots ringing on the metal grating. Telemachus followed, each step a fresh torment, the ripped denim rubbing, the internal ache pulsing with every movement. They passed cavernous workshops filled with monstrous, half-assembled Soldat units, sparks flying from welding torches, the acrid smell of ozone and hot metal thick. Karl ignored the workers, who kept their heads down, focused intently on their tasks. He stopped before a heavy, riveted steel door marked 'PRIVATE'. He punched a code into a keypad; locks clunked open with pneumatic sighs.
Inside, Karl’s quarters were a stark contrast to the industrial chaos outside – a utilitarian space dominated by a large, scarred metal desk strewn with blueprints, weapon components, and empty bottles. A worn leather couch faced a massive, state-of-the-art flatscreen TV mounted on the concrete wall. The air smelled of cigarillo smoke, gun oil, and stale beer. No books. No projects. No scent of old paper. Only domination and decay.
"Make yourself useful," Karl muttered, shucking his heavy coat and tossing it onto the couch. He crossed to a humming industrial fridge, yanked it open, and pulled out two bottles of dark beer. He popped the caps off on the edge of the desk. "Here." He shoved one cold bottle into Telemachus’s hand. Telemachus flinched, the chill shocking his skin. He couldn’t hold Karl’s gaze, staring instead at the amber liquid inside the bottle. He didn’t want it. He couldn’t stomach anything.
Karl sank onto the couch with a grunt, taking a long swig. He gestured vaguely towards the screen with his bottle. "Gonna watch somethin'. Sick of the fuckin' noise out there." He grabbed a sleek remote from the desk, thumbed a button. The massive screen flared to life, bathing the sterile room in harsh, flickering light. He navigated menus with impatient jabs. "Need somethin'... visceral. Cut through the bullshit."
Telemachus stood frozen near the door, the unopened beer heavy in his hand. The hum of the fridge, the throb of distant machinery, the glow of the screen – it all pressed in. He needed a plan. Now. Karl vulnerable, distracted… Heal the wound, then run. But Karl looked solid, unbreakable, nursing his beer, his attention fixed on the screen as he scrolled through movie titles. The raw ache between Telemachus’s legs was a constant, painful reminder of his powerlessness.
"Ah, this'll do," Karl announced, a grim smile touching his lips. He selected an old, grainy-looking film. The title splashed across the screen in blood-red letters: The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. "Classic. Pure fuckin' chaos. Less messy than the real thing." He took another swig, then patted the worn leather beside him. "Sit. Quit hoverin' like a fuckin' ghost."
Telemachus hesitated, his knuckles white on the beer bottle. The thought of sitting, of the pressure on his injuries… Karl’s eyes snapped to him, sharp and dangerous. "Did I stutter, mutt? Sit."
Swallowing bile, Telemachus shuffled forward. He lowered himself gingerly onto the very edge of the couch cushion, as far from Karl as possible, the leather groaning under his slight weight. He set the untouched beer bottle carefully on the floor. The opening credits ended with a shrieking score that grated on his nerves. The film began – dusty roads, oppressive heat, unsettling close-ups.
Karl stretched his arm along the back of the couch, his fingers dangerously close to Telemachus’s neck. He was engrossed, leaning forward slightly as the doomed teenagers wandered into the dilapidated farmhouse. Telemachus kept his gaze fixed on the screen, but his mind raced. Karl was relaxed, focused on the horror unfolding digitally. Distraction. He could create a distraction. Maybe spill the beer? Fake a seizure? Anything to force Karl close, to get his hands on him… to use the kiss. The healing power tingled uselessly beneath his skin, a trapped bird fluttering against a cage.
On screen, Leatherface burst from a shadowed doorway, the chainsaw roaring to life. Karl chuckled, a low, appreciative rumble. "There he is! Fuckin' beautiful." The chainsaw tore into flesh with brutal, grainy efficiency. Blood, black in the dim light, sprayed the peeling wallpaper. Telemachus flinched, the sudden, visceral violence mirroring the echoes of his own recent trauma. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, the wet tearing sounds on the soundtrack merging horribly with the memory of Karl’s grunts, the creak of the cot.
He opened his eyes. Karl was utterly absorbed, taking a slow drag of his cigarillo, the smoke curling towards the ceiling. The beer bottle rested on his thigh. Telemachus’s heart hammered against his ribs. Now. Do it now. He tensed the muscles in his good leg. A sharp kick? Send the bottle flying? Karl would be angry, would grab him, shake him… and then…
Before he could move, Karl shifted. His heavy arm dropped from the back of the couch and settled heavily around Telemachus’s shoulders, pulling him roughly against his side. Telemachus froze, the breath catching in his ruined throat. Karl’s heat, the smell of smoke and stale sweat, the sheer, inescapable weight of him – it pinned him more effectively than any chain. Karl didn’t even look away from the screen.
"Pay attention, mutt," Karl murmured, his voice rough but oddly conversational amidst the screams from the TV. His thumb rubbed distractedly against the torn fabric covering Telemachus’s upper arm. "See how efficient he is? No fuckin' around. Straight to business. Effective violence." On screen, Leatherface dragged a shrieking victim towards a meat hook. Karl’s grip tightened slightly. "Pure fuckin' id. Beautiful." He took another swig of beer, the bottle cold against Telemachus’s temple for a fleeting second.
Telemachus was trapped, crushed against Karl’s side, forced to witness the cinematic carnage while acutely aware of the man beside him. Karl’s hand slid lower, resting heavily on Telemachus’s abdomen, just above the waistband of his ruined jeans. The pressure sent fresh jolts of pain radiating downwards. Karl’s fingers drummed idly, possessively, against the dirty white hoodie, directly over the tender, bruised flesh beneath. He could feel Karl’s pulse through the contact point, steady and relentless as a piston.
The film descended into primal terror – relentless chase, the shriek of the chainsaw, the grotesque family dinner scene. Karl watched with rapt, almost clinical attention, occasionally offering commentary in a low growl. "Brilliant framing… That scream’s genuine, y’know… The sound design on the saw…” His fingers pressed a little harder into Telemachus’s abdomen as Leatherface swung the roaring weapon in a final, frenzied arc. Telemachus felt a hot trickle of fluid seep from his violated entrance, soaking further into the denim. He kept perfectly still, the dragon on his back crushed against Karl, the broken kitsune mask digging into his collarbone. The flickering light of the screen danced across Karl’s intense profile – the sharp jawline, the focused eyes, the faint curve of a smile playing on his lips as the final chainsaw scream echoed in the suddenly silent room.
The credits rolled, the harsh electronic score replacing the screams. Karl let out a contented sigh, like a man finishing a satisfying meal. He drained the last of his beer and set the bottle down heavily on the floor. His arm remained locked around Telemachus, fingers still pressing possessively against his abdomen. He glanced down at the silent figure pressed against him, the tear tracks glistening faintly on the exposed cheeks below the mask's broken edge.
"Like it?" Karl asked, his voice a low rumble vibrating through Telemachus’s trapped body. He didn't wait for, or expect, an answer. His thumb brushed roughly over Telemachus's lower lip, tracing the seam. "Told you. Cuts through the bullshit." He shifted, pulling Telemachus even closer, his breath hot and smelling of beer and smoke against the damaged skin of his neck. "Just us now. Nice and quiet." He turned his head slightly, his gaze fixed on the blank screen, but his hold was absolute. Telemachus felt the slow, wet warmth of fresh leakage trickling down his inner thigh. The plan felt like ash. Karl wasn't distracted. He was just changing the channel on his amusement. The factory hummed its relentless song outside the steel door. The kiss remained trapped, useless, inside his silent throat. Karl’s fingers pressed deeper, a silent reminder of ownership. Property. Cunt. Mutt. The words echoed louder than any chainsaw in the suffocating quiet.
The credits' harsh synth score finally died. Silence rushed in, thick as the factory's oil-slick air. Karl shifted his heavy arm, the leather couch groaning, but didn't release his grip. His thumb traced the damp edge of the torn kitsune mask where it met Telemachus's jawline. "Gets the blood pumpin', huh?" His voice was a low rumble against Telemachus's temple, cigarillo smoke clinging to the words. "Clears the fuckin' head."
Telemachus remained rigid, the dragon embroidered on his hoodie crushed against Karl's side. Every shallow breath sent a fresh throb through his ravaged core. The stickiness between his thighs was a constant, humiliating reminder. Distraction. He needed a distraction. Something visceral, undeniable, to shatter Karl's predatory calm. The healing kiss itched under his skin, useless, trapped. Make him come close. Force him to touch the wound. The thought crystallized, cold and sharp.
Karl chuckled, a dry scrape. "Bet that tight little asshole of yours is still twitchin'. Saw you jump when the saw hit bone." His hand slid lower, pressing hard into Telemachus’s abdomen, fingers probing the tender mess beneath the stained denim. Telemachus flinched, a silent gasp tearing his throat. Karl just squeezed. "Sensitive bitch." He reached for another beer on the floor, popping the cap. The sudden hiss echoed.
Telemachus closed his eyes. The phantom roar of the chainsaw mixed with Karl's grunts from the cottage, the creak of the bed frame, the wet slap of skin. The images from the porn Karl forced him to watch flashed – the choked pleas, the brutal penetration, the leaking aftermath. He saw the smooth skin of Karl’s throat, the pulse beating steadily beneath it. There. His healing surged, a trapped animal. He needed Karl there. Bleeding.
He brought his right hand up slowly, trembling. Not towards Karl. Towards his own left wrist, hidden under the baggy sleeve of the ruined white hoodie. The fabric was stiff with dried blood – his own, Karl’s, grime. He pushed the sleeve up just enough, exposing pale skin and the faint tracery of old scars. His clawed shoes scraped faintly on the concrete floor. Karl took a long swig, oblivious, eyes drifting towards the blank screen.
Telemachus fixed his gaze on the thin blue vein just beneath the skin. His pulse hammered against it. Do it. Make him look. Make him come. He opened his mouth. His teeth were slightly sharp – not animal, not human, a bioweapon’s legacy. He pressed his canine against the delicate skin, a sharp point of pressure. He braced. Then bit down. Hard.
Pain, clean and sharp unlike the deep, violating ache below, exploded in his wrist. He felt skin part, the warm gush of blood immediately coating his chin, dripping onto the torn white hoodie sleeve, brilliant red against the grimy fabric. He held the bite, grinding his teeth deeper into the flesh, tasting copper, salt, his own fragility. A low, choked whine escaped him – the closest he could get to a sound.
Karl’s head snapped around. "The fuck—?" He saw the blood. Saw Telemachus’s teeth sunk into his own wrist, eyes wide and desperate above the torn mask. "Shit! You stupid bitch!" Karl shoved him back against the couch arm, grabbing the injured wrist with brutal force. He wrenched Telemachus’s hand away from his mouth. Blood pulsed freely from the deep, ragged puncture, running in hot rivulets down Telemachus’s forearm, soaking into the blue and purple threads of the hoodie's cuff, dripping onto the worn leather.
Karl leaned in, his face inches away, eyes narrowed, furious, focused entirely on the wound. "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" He spat, his cigarillo breath hot on Telemachus’s face. His other hand clamped down hard on Telemachus’s shoulder, pinning him. The moment stretched. Karl’s grip on the bleeding wrist was like iron. Telemachus’s broken mask brushed Karl’s stubbled cheek. Now. With every ounce of will left in his broken body, Telemachus surged forward. He pressed his lips, sticky with his own blood, hard against the pulse point just below Karl’s jaw.
Karl jerked back as if electrocuted, eyes widening with shock that rapidly curdled into fury. "The fuck—?" he roared, shoving Telemachus hard against the couch back. The scent of copper filled the cramped space, sharp and metallic over the stale beer and smoke. Telemachus’s blood dripped steadily onto the leather, pooling darkly against the cracked surface.
He’d felt it – the surge of power leaving him, the familiar warmth that flowed when he healed others. It vanished instantly, absorbed by Karl’s unyielding skin. Nothing. No wound bloomed. No gasp of surprise. Just Karl’s furious, unblemished neck. Hope, a fragile ember, extinguished utterly.
"Trying to play hero, mutt?" Karl snarled, his grip like steel bands around Telemachus’s bleeding wrist. He yanked it higher, forcing Telemachus to look at the ragged, self-inflicted wound. "Think your little party trick works on me?" His laugh was harsh, jagged glass scraping concrete. "I built you. Your fucked-up biology doesn't touch mine." He slammed Telemachus’s wrist down onto the armrest, making him gasp soundlessly. "Stupid. Worthless."
Karl surged to his feet, looming over the trembling figure. Cigarette ash drifted onto Telemachus’s hoodie. "Gonna bleed all over my floor? My couch?" He kicked a heavy boot against the riveted steel desk. "Cleanin' crew ain't paid for this shit." He stalked across the small room, boots echoing, and wrenched open a heavy metal cabinet door. Inside, among scattered tools and spare gun parts, was a dented, olive-green metal box with a faded red cross.
He snatched the first aid kit, the metal clanging as he slammed the cabinet shut. Striding back, he dropped the kit onto the couch beside Telemachus with a heavy thud. "Fix it," he commanded, his voice dangerously low. "Now. Before you make a bigger mess."
Telemachus stared at the box, then at his wrist. Blood pulsed warmly, steadily. The pain was a bright, clean counterpoint to the deep, sickening throb below. Fix it himself? He looked up at Karl, confusion warring with fear in his wide, exposed eyes beneath the broken mask.
Karl saw the hesitation. His lip curled. "Or would you rather I use duct tape and a soldering iron? Your choice, bitch." He lit a fresh cigarillo, the match flaring briefly in the dim light, and leaned back against the desk, watching through the smoke haze. "Clock's ticking. Factory floor don't run itself."
The threat was clear, visceral. Telemachus flinched. With trembling, blood-slicked fingers, he fumbled with the kit's stiff latches. They clicked open. The smell of antiseptic and sterile gauze hit him, clinical and sharp. Inside, rolls of bandages, pads, tape, small bottles. He pulled out a thick gauze pad, pressing it clumsily against the bite. Crimson bloomed through the white fabric instantly. His other hand fumbled for the roll of bandage, the blood making his fingers slip.
"Messy," Karl observed, blowing a smoke ring towards the humming fridge. "You'd think somethin' designed for healin' could handle a little scratch." His tone was mocking, cold. "Guess they skimped on the self-repair protocols."
Telemachus ignored the taunt, focusing on winding the bandage around his wrist. It was difficult, clumsy; the bandage kept bunching, the gauze pad shifting. Blood seeped onto his black jeans, adding to the other, older stains. The dragon on his hoodie’s shoulder was smeared crimson where his chin had brushed against it. He pulled the bandage tight, securing the end with the metal clip. It was rough, uneven, the pressure making the bite throb, but the bleeding slowed to a sluggish ooze under the thick layers.
He held his bandaged wrist up, a silent offering. Karl pushed off the desk, stepping close. He grabbed Telemachus’s forearm, his gloved fingers digging in just above the bandage, inspecting the crude dressing with a critical, dismissive stare. "Pathetic," he grunted. He dropped the arm. "But it'll do. For now." He took a final drag on his cigarillo before grinding it out on the steel desktop, leaving a dark smudge. "We're done here. Up."
He grabbed Telemachus’s other arm, hauling him roughly to his feet. Telemachus staggered, the sudden movement jarring every bruised inch of him, the internal ache flaring bright. Karl didn’t wait for balance. He spun him towards the reinforced steel door. "Move. Got work waiting." He shoved Telemachus forward. "And keep that fuckin' wrist outta your mouth."