Author's Rating: NC-17 [Non-consent, horror, mental games.]

Author's Note: This is very much a collaborative effort with Rob Wood. Though I developed and wrote the details of the story, I must credit him with his involvement and feedback on the prominent use of two of his well-known story characters (Pigman and Michael Mason) as well as much of the vivid setting detail provided over hours of RPGing in "Low 5" within the Skin Trade. Certain details of Pigman and Michael Mason were either revealed or developed in-game and further interactions with my character, Cerise Fiske (an undercover Cloak "burner"--or one-time use "Agent") created a solid dynamic between the three. The action of this story was discussed as "having occurred" but for obvious reasons was not roleplayed in-game. This perversion is pretty much entirely my own, though Rob happily assisted with dialogue and setting questions to keep things consistent with his WoP. Thank you, Rob!

Pigman’s Playground
Mort City. Downtown: somewhere in Low 5. 898 SD.

At least he left her shoes to run.

The moist open air was chilling her skin until goosebumps dimpled her flesh and her bare breasts had nipples hard as diamonds. She knew she had no choice but to give him a good run for it, but there was also no way for her to make it back to Depot like this: bare assed and weaponless, wearing only a pair of running shoes to prevent the glass and debris from slicing up her feet and significantly shortening the chase. He would catch her, and he would rape her. She’d known it was coming, the way he’d haunted her steps and harassed her at the Trade hub. She’d known that she would be trapped into some game for his entertainment sooner or later, no matter how many times she narrowly escaped before.

But it didn’t matter now. Pigman simply didn’t get tired of interesting or amusing prey; he wasn’t easily discouraged, either, even when you fought back and actually hurt him. The Prop roamed and watched and listened in all the dark places around Depot; he killed and raped and tortured for the pure pleasure of causing fear and spreading terror. It was just what he did; no remorse, no apology, and his ego knew no limit in gorging on the rep he’d built.

All that was really in her control now was giving him a reason not to kill her after he was finished. Fear was natural, and fear was what he wanted most of all. Mason had figured it out, though; control the fear, just control it, don’t break…and if he was just playing, Pigman probably wouldn’t kill you. He’d want to save you for later when you did break and weren’t so much fun anymore. Her main asset’s voice came back to her: Only thing I know…the ones he breaks, he kills.

Cerise was SLA. She was undercover, sure, and nobody knew but Maab—her “supervisor”—and Michael Mason, the former Truck Boss that Maab had roped into signing with Cloak as an “asset” or being executed on the spot. But she was SLA; she knew how to control her fear. She had been trained for pressure like this!

Now for a test of very imminent and lethal threat… Pigman’s playground. Nobody was within the abandoned and derelict slaughterhouse except him and no one was outside except feral DACs, cannibals, and carnivorous pigs. The slaughterhouse had machines long corroded from disuse, the scents of rusting metal, rancid oil, and old blood layered like dust sheets over the furniture in a ghosted condo. Loose flaps of tin seemed to randomly clatter in the dark. The shadows were deep and impenetrable for the most part, though there was some ambient light coming from somewhere outside—through holes in the structure and plenty of broken windows. There were also several far-spaced lamps glowing dimly along the walls; about half of them showed the entrance to a dark hallway, likely leading to old offices or storage areas.

He must have a generator somewhere…you can tell when he’s home.

In all honesty, Pigman was her protector in this place as much as her stalker. He was her ticket back to what barely counted as civilization in this sector, out of the wasteland through which he’d carried her —knocked out and completely unaware.

Cerise had been clothed when he’d jumped her back at the hub; she’d woken up with a bump on her head, lying naked on a damp and gritty floor with her shoes and a tiny flashlight beside her, a brown leather collar around her throat. She was only mildly bruised and scraped, though it felt like something had been jammed roughly into her vagina and pulled out again recently. She tested with her fingers for ejaculate, gingerly probing herself and found none; she was actually pretty dry. She finally took the flashlight, sat up and illuminated her immediate surroundings with its weak light.

A heavy chain leash was soldered to the collar she wore and the end was wrapped around the leg of a five-hundred-pound, rusted meat processor and secured with a combination lock. Scratched in a crude hand on the belly of the processor in front of her was what looked like—Oh, you’ve got to be shitting me—a Word Jumble puzzle.

There were three nonsense words with a matching number of empty boxes just below them. Two boxes of each word had a circle embedded inside. Like in a newspaper; rearrange the letters into a word and collect the circled letters to create another word. Cerise stared at it, feeling grit and pebbles digging into her thigh and hip and palm as she sat sideways on the floor aiming the flashlight at the scratching. The chain leash clinked quietly whenever she moved and she looked around her again, broadening her understanding of where she was. The empty production floor was quiet except for the pattering of rain and the rattling of metal.

She slowly turned back and studied at the jumble puzzle then the lock…then the puzzle again, seeing the trio of twin circles in each word. She knew Piggy loved his games…particularly those on his terms with his rules. But he’d also claimed once to work on crossword puzzles, of all damned things. It made a bit of sense to her that those circles could represent the individual digits of the three-number combination she needed to open the lock. Except they’d be letters, not numbers…

She sincerely hoped the Prop went for the basic A=1, B=2, etc code. Otherwise she had no idea what she’d do…

Almost glad to have something to focus on over the shifting darkness, she took a breath and looked at the first word.

JEHCZQUA

Holy hell. Was it even in Killian?

Second word: MCDEIEIO

What the fuck...?

“Said yah liked puzzles,” his voice rumbled out from behind the curtain of shadow and rain.

She gasped and looked around, unable to see him or tell quite where the sound had come from. The flashlight didn’t even reach twenty feet out, so she shut it off and let her eyes adjust to the ambient light to see if that would help. The cavernous acoustics of the former slaughterhouse and the constant patter of rain baffled her ears as she tried to pinpoint him.

“Yah do, don’tcha?” his disembodied voice sounded again.

She frowned and tried to decide what to say besides, Fuck you, Piggy.

“Better answer, Blondie.”

She still wasn’t able to see him, but she answered as she continued scanning, “Yes, I remember saying that. I meant more ‘who done it’ puzzles, though.”

His dark chuckle echoed. “Some thought you knew whatchu were doin’. Investigatin’ and interviewin’, lookin’ fer the killer at Depot.”

Cerise shrugged as nonchalant as she could, though her heart was beginning to pound as she wondered, He didn’t know, did he? He didn’t know that “Cami” wasn’t all she seemed? She’d never leave here if he did.

“Had to be a reason the Truck Bosses asked me to look into it, right?” she replied with stubborn bravado. “Some of the them know talent when they see it.” Like in Slayer’s world, the smartest, most aggressive, or more ambitious climbed the ladder here. The chain clinked again with her movement. It was a surprisingly constant weight pulling at her neck and head.

“Yeah. Yah found him. Surprised the fuck outta me. Guess you ain’t only a good lookin’ piece.”

His laugh was a sneering chuckle as he stepped just enough out of the inky shadows on the level above and behind her, putting his elbows on the railing. He raked her with his gaze, a leer curling one side of his wide mouth. He was holding a meat hook in his left hand with the chain coiled around his massive forearm and he almost immediately began carving at the railing with the tip, squeaking against the old metal in a way that sent unpleasant vibrations through Cerise’s molars. His pigskin mask quivered as he continued chuckling and he raised his thick right index finger up to his nose with a deliberate, relishing sniff.

“Tight snatch,” he waggled his finger at her and she felt her face flush with some anger and embarrassment—which was sort of ridiculous considering the situation. She dared not even focus too much on how damned vulnerable she was. Still, she felt a hot, somatic response in her sex at realizing why she was a bit sore. He must’ve worked her dry with that rough pigskin glove for several hard strokes.

At least it hadn’t been with the meat hook…

He grinned wider as he took a second sniff. “Ain’t bad, betchur ass is tighter,” he snorted. “Been waitin’ a long time.”

He reached to shift the bulge in the crotch of his pants and she realized he’d already taken off his cod piece and leg armor, and most importantly, his tool belt. Was it a good sign that he didn’t feel he needed all those slicing, sawing, and gouging instruments? She supposed it was relative…

“Get loose in five an’ you get a head start. Make me come down there and we skip the fore play.”

Cerise’s heart continued to pound as she felt a cold rush down her arms and legs that made her feel weak for a moment, but she resolutely refused to think long about how creative he could get with a tether-toy to bat around, never mind the rusted, jagged edges cutting into her belly and breasts if he wanted to bend her over the meat processor. Her stomach trembled and she swallowed, pointing the flashlight again at the puzzle. Five minutes…Jeez, fuck…calm down, calm down. Focus.

The third word didn’t make any more sense than the first two and Cerise wondered what she was missing. Her eyes transposed the letters in her mind several times but she quickly got the feeling she wasn’t meant to find an answer in the jumble. Pigman usually came out of your periphery while you were distracted and looking at something else…

The now-shivering undercover paused in her word-finding, her eyes going from the puzzle and the lock to the chain and she carefully reached to explore the collar itself with her fingers. It was buckled and secured, yes. Was it locked…?

No.

Pigman was roaring with hilarity and—she could almost think—with delight when she unbuckled the collar and let it and the thick chain leash drop to the ground. She scrambled to shove her feet into her shoes before standing up, still gripping the flashlight though she’d snapped the beam off.

“Way to go, girlie! Smarter than most I bring here! You just bought yerself four minutes and twenty-eight seconds!”