This choice: Character limits (reserved again, pls.) • Go Back...Chapter #7“Y’all got any uhhhh...feär?” by: Unknown “Miss Pierce? Mister Talon?” Marc begged, battering his fists against the door when he heard them continue to seal him in with his doom. “Come on, please, DON’T LEAVE ME HERE!!!”
The two didn’t stick around to torment themselves by listening to his pleas. When the last lock was set, the pitter-patter of their feet set out to leave him to his fate, the one that even the mightiest fighters of the ASL hurried to avoid conversing of. Even the likes of Dominique and Gloria, the latter of whom once left a press conference early when asked if she’d take Indrid on in the ring one day. They may have been cruel, but at least they didn’t crawl out from people’s TV screens and into their rooms to eat them, or appear in your room to slaughter you with their hook-hand if you spoke their name five times.
Probably.
Then came a drafty wisp of air tracing over his spine, daring him to stare back in an act that pained his soul. His first look at a new mistress’ room would give him some outlook on how they lived their lives: trophies and posters if they were loud blowhards, pretty knick-knacks and expensive jewelry for the socialites, all further hints on how many and how big of punishments he’d experience on the job. However, Indrid’s sense of living came to the bare essentials: a rusted bedframe carrying a skeletal mattress that Marc’d probably see laying in the alley behind a run-down motel. The room probably would’ve been inhabitable outright if not for a single light bulb hanging over the foot of the bed, its dirty filament casting only enough light to see layers of dust and grime left untouched on the walls for several years, unbothered by so much as a picture frame.
...and huddled in the corner, crowded next to a record player whose horn sang an antique tune infested with static,  sat a tremendous pile of solidified darkness, squirming in seemingly amorphous movements that were too far from the light for Marc to tell just who or what it was.
“...hello?”
The heap of black froze in shape, its exterior bristling at the dainty peep Marc had emitted, then straightened out, stretching higher and higher on a substantial amount of height, but nonetheless maintained its massive breadth, putting its immensity over par with a rich man’s house. Marc furrowed his eyes to make out any detail of what part of its body was what, if just an arm, leg, anything less than a fingernail, yet the most he could scrutinize was a fleshy dollop at its very peak, capped with scruffy hair split by two ropey antennae draped over their owner’s back.
Then two slivers of red light tearing open along its face that widened into two solid bulbs, staring right back at him.
Whatever Marc could say was extinguished at the very thought as he wondered if Indrid could even understand him, that she was even a being whose sense of morality bore any resemblance to even the ass-backwards logic of the ASL’s. Observing her new playmate remain huddled against the locked doorway with enough time for her to lunge on him twice, her head bent down, the same way a wild cat’s would when it was preparing too tear into an unexpecting gazelle, then twitched to the lightbulb, her entire form rolling over to its dusty spotlight. Just her stepping up underneath caused its light to fizzle for a few seconds, its wire shivering in a breeze brought on by her movements.
Not that the aged lightbulb gave Indrid crystal clarity, considering her entire biology, likely down to her bones and internal organs, were imbued a black that consumed more of the light than it could reflect, but there was a sliver of comfort in that it gave her some tangible form. Without being reduced to a comatose vegetable out of fear, as many rumored in the coffee room, he could see right into her face, or at least the borderline total lack of; her head was completely devoid of a nose or any nostrils, her breathing thus reduced to a chilly strings of hisses through a mouth hidden beneath the underside of her vaguely bean-shaped head, only able to emote via two enormous compound eyes that burned with a hellish red even in the light.
Those eyes calculated her new slave’s mindset with zero amounts of love or hate past two broad cheeks flanking either side of her head, teetering along a cascade of three chin-rolls occupying her neckspace that merged amongst unkempt-grass style fur and plush cleavage rising up from the super-stretched collar of a rotted garment keeping her chest contained. Wide, spanning shoulders addled with paunch and bulk hoisted a bosom putting immense pressure on the very crux of her shirt, her breasts billowing outwards beyond the limits of what her pillowy arms could extend to, but both were merely the mushroom’s cap to everything from the chest down, her predominate immensity avalanching past her bustling from below and onto the floor in her stomach, a spheric mass of chitin expanded to such ludicrous proportions that even standing still couldn’t be done without the all-encompassing distance of floorboards it coated erupting into loud flexing sounds under its indomitable weight, as her legs, as cumbersome as they were, sat obscured from behind save for the very slivers of either hip, too little in such little light for him to tell if her lower half was clothed, or even if she was wearing any underwear.
Again, while at a size advantage where she’d be able to bloodily end his life with an act no harder than pushing a pinkie finger through his chest...progress. She was a being of flesh and blood, not some cosmic monstrosity of some different realm, which meant she could be studied and understood. Perhaps, if given a heavy dosage of optimism, reasoned with.
“So...you’re Indrid.” Marc jabbed his fingernails in his own palm, the pain preventing him from letting a ‘duh’ spill out by accident. “My name’s Ma-“
“...Marcus...Waldreignewizch...Youngblood.”
Indrid’s antennae twitched, sensing the initial spark of fear she’d earned out of Marc. That damn middle name...the one that had subjected him to so many mispronunciations and teasing that he’d sworn it off by middle school, writing it as a shameful “W” unless he absolutely had to, never saying it outright.
Indrid not only knew every letter by heart, but pronounced it as well as his own grandparents would.
“You’ve...you’ve read my application, then?” He insisted. Maybe to Indrid, maybe to himself, maybe to the hands of fate who’d dealt him this hand to begin with, who were no doubt still laughing their asses off. “That’s mighty kind of you t-“
“...Born under June and Miles Youngblood.” She prattled on. “Latter died when you were age four. Earliest...only memory of him the county fair, riding the roller coaster with him.”
Her antennae twitched again, but she was able to see the terror firsthand as Marc curled up into a ball with his back to the door, inching towards the corner to achieve what little distance from the titanic moth it could supply him. “H...How did...”
Indrid’s eyes honed in on him, thirsty for the sweet, tangy fear that he carried, and she stepped forward, entering the same patch of shadow that Marc resided in. Her wings fluttered open and flared over her back, blocking off more of the light, and with less of her form to see, her motions seemed all the more liquid as she approached him like the darkness trapped in the most repressed part of his mind were leaking out and entering the room in a tidal wave of sapient abyss.
“Y-You know what?” Marc reasoned, willing to cut his losses to get out of hearing Indrid ramble off his childhood memories. “You want me to fear you? Fine. I’m scared. Hell, you want me to piss my pants? I can just...”
Indrid instead rolled forward against her own belly so she could shove her head right into the air he was breathing, more of the bulb’s light vanishing behind her titanic butt. He skittered into the corner, with Indrid following suit so he couldn’t increase the gap between him and her eyes, no further than what allowed him to see his own reflection in them. He was more gaunt, maybe just as terrified as what he was staring back at, but maybe not as distorted as her eyes made him out to be, his eyes rolling back and jaw twisted around as the corpse to one who was literally scared to death would be.
Just enough to keep him from reacting too early to a fatty, three-fingered hand to enter the red glow and snap around his neck. Her thumb prodded onto his windpipe, keeping him plenty silent as she opened her maw and lulled her tongue out, a fat, oil-slick black tentacle that painted his face with saliva, eyes flittering in the first traces of emotion he could feel off her as she relished in his strangled attempts to scream, the squirming under her thumb to release the pressure binding him to the wall.
“Fear...’ She observed aloud, inviting her tongue back so she could stare at him with perhaps the only other emotion he thought she could feel: hunger. “Need...more...”
Choice 1: Indrid goes for all the physical fears. Crushing, squashing, all that phun stuff.
Choice 2: Indrid casts her magic, resorting to more otherworldly means to extract fear from Marc!
Choice 3: Indrid forces Marc to watch bad movies, or some other spoofy route.
Choice 4: Whatever worse things you can come up with.
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