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NowLeavingFargo
Moon
- Joined
- Dec 12, 2023
The hollow, metallic sound of someone pounding on the trailer door forced its way into Edgar's mind, staccato nails pounding their way through the delightfully alcoholic fog he'd been sleeping in. "Jesus Christ, shut up!" he shouted, the volume of his voice sending a fresh wave of pain through his skull. With a deep groan he tried to move, slowly working out which limbs did what and pushing himself up from the filthy floor and carpet that reeked of old cigarettes, takeout and vomit. Someone kept pounding on the door, his voice croaking as he shouted back. "Motherfucker, I'm coming, shut up!"
Slowly he shuffled his way through the trailer, every staggering step a monumental effort through the impossible hangover. Bottles were scattered by his feet and clinked into each other as he kicked them, the carpet scratchy and disgusting beneath his bare feet. At some point he must have tried to change, wearing only a ragged pair of jeans with his shirt long gone. It exposed the body of an older man gone to pot, the decent abs and pecs he'd once cultivated now buried beneath a layer of fat, even his body hair starting to go gray with age. It seemed like there were more grays everyday, both on his head as well as mixed in the long, scraggly beard.
Finally he managed to throw the door open, wincing from the morning light and staring out in dull incomprehension. He looked like a wild man, filthy and bedraggled in stark contrast to the woman standing before the door. In this shitty trailer park filled with people one bad month away from being homeless, she was like a beacon of authority and wealth; blonde hair in a severe bun, spectacles perched on her nose, an impeccably tailored suit jacket over a white blouse and matching skirt past her knees and smart black heels. Someone like her simply didn't exist in a place like this. The two bruisers behind her, in suits of their own that stretched over massively muscular chests, were much more common. "Edgar Daniels?" she asked in quick, crisp syllables.
"Who the fuck wants to know?" he nearly slurred in return, hazy brown eyes keeping an eye on the two men who were watching him from behind large, mirrored sunglasses. Christ, it was too early for the damned repo men or whatever the fuck this was. "I don't have time for this-"
"You are Edgar Daniels," she repeated, this time with certainty. "We would like you to come with us."
He blinked a few times, not quite understanding. He didn't owe money to anyone, did he? Or at least not anyone dangerous or important. "Well, who the fuck are you?" he demanded, clinging tightly to the door frame to avoid just collapsing entirely.
"We have interest regarding your activities thirty years ago, at the University of South-"
Edgar was moving before she finished. With every trace of intoxication gone he slammed the door shut, only to hear it crash into the shoulder of one of the goons as he turned. In a few quick strides he was down the hallway, in the bathroom, door locked. Fingers that felt as thick as sausages fumbled with the window, undoing the latch and throwing it open just in time for the door to crash open as the lock shattered from the goon's charge. He tried to shout, only to feel the metal studs of a taser and electric agony tearing his world apart.
\--------------------------------------
When Edgar woke up he groaned loudly, trying to press his head into his hands. Only for his arms to remain still, bound by his wrists behind him. Everything was dark, only pinpricks of light filtering through. Shifting slowly he tried to take stock; he was alive. Excellent, step one covered. He was half sitting and half lying on a leather seat, rumbling all around him. A car?
Movement, someone else with him, and he let out another cry as the sack was pulled away from his head. Blinking against the light he looked around; a car, a \*nice\* car, a limousine in fact. The blonde woman was seated across from him, watching him dispassionately, with the goons barely visible up front through the tinted glass.
"Edgar Daniels, formerly Michael Willis," she sad in the same professional manner, her cold eyes practically daring him to challenge the claim. "Attended the University of South Carolina from 1989 to 1991, majoring in Biology and Chemistry. In March of 1991, you were accused of having kidnapped, drugged and raped three female students."
He didn't say anything, couldn't. All he could do was lay there as the scenario he'd always feared played out before his very eyes. "You fled the campus before you could be arrested. The same night, a fire destroyed the school's chemistry labs, believed to have been set by you in order to cover your escape.
"Three months later, hundreds of female students came forward claiming to have also been assaulted by you. Details varied, but all claimed to have only recently remembered being drugged and forced to act as sexual servants to you and many other male students. Many produced video evidence, but everything showed them as active and willing participants. The story was put down as a hoax, young women attempting to use you to downplay their own indiscretions."
"Yeah," he started to say, a faint flicker of hope coming into view. "Yeah, they made it up. I never-"
"Others," the woman went on, his heart sinking all over again, "believed that you had used some novel form of narcotic to override their free will and force their compliance, and that the destruction of the chemistry labs was to erase evidence of both your misdeeds and your research."
There it was, and he knew his face was utterly failing to conceal the absolute truth of the woman's words. It was different days, back when he was young, cocky, convinced that he would never be caught. What started as tweaking his girlfriend's personality had become legions of devoted servants, the entire campus a playground for his whims. But he'd made a mistake, used a new formula without proper testing, and it was all over. Then he'd realized how dangerous it was. How a single flaw could backfire so spectacularly. And what would happen if anyone ever found out that his research still existed in his own mind. Vanishing was the only way out.
She was still staring at him, as if waiting for him to try pointless denials. Instead he slowly managed to haul himself up to a seated position, his eyes empty of fear. In some ways, it was a relief. Now, one way or another, the running was finally over. "So now," he said slowly, staring into her eyes. "Which is it? You're either here to kill me, or to recruit me."
The faintest hint of a smile, the woman's lips curling slightly upwards. "Correct. My employer would like to offer you a laboratory and a sizable salary."
Recruitment, then. The bullet was almost preferable, but this way at least carried the promise of escape. "And who is he going to be using it all on?"
"I'm sure *she* will be happy to explain everything once we've arrived," the woman said, her smile becoming a little wider when he blinked in obvious surprise.
"She?"
\---------------------------------------------------
Looking for someone to take the role of an evil woman, the 'employer' in the prompt, who's more than happy to encourage and enable the evil of a former mind controller and all around bastard. She should be someone with plenty of power and underworld connections; that could be a crime boss in her own right, a powerful corporate executive, or just an independently wealthy woman who has a list of victims she'd like to see be stripped of their free will.
The dynamic here is quite interesting. She needs his work, not the man himself, and he only lives as long as he can remain indispensable in the production of his mind-altering serums. But as long as he is, she's eager to keep him compliant with money, sex, playthings of his own, whatever it takes to advance her own goals. Does she want to control her rivals? Traffick in mind-controlled slaves? Destroy other women and men just because she can? Or does she secretly wish for her own will to be eroded and claimed?
As for him, a man with his knowledge and access to materials is incredibly dangerous. The moment his captor makes a mistake he could drug her and seize control, but in the meantime he needs to keep her happy just in case she decides to torture the formula out of him. Does he comply with all of her demands? Negotiate for better treatment for himself? Conduct secret research of his own to erode her power base from within and prepare for a coup? Or just accept the role of a criminal drug doc?
It becomes a twisted game of cat and mouse, two predators just waiting for the other to show hints of weakness while never being sure if overtures of friendliness are real or not. And all the while she has her own plans for the narcotics he produces. Does he agree with them? Is he horrified by them? What lines are they each willing to cross? And if he does falter, what would she do to convince him to go ahead?
Given the nature of this, the ideal partner would obviously be someone comfortable playing multiple roles, as would I. My initial thought is for each of us to have our main predatory character (the doctor and the employer) while we each play out victims for the other. (I play the men/women she wishes to have controlled, you play whatever victims he seizes for himself.) I'm generally a dom, but part of this is to help me stretch those creative muscles and write more sub roles. Other arrangements are certainly possible.
I try to write at least one good post a day, but cannot always make that. My own schedule is erratic enough that I ask for flexibility regarding response times, and happily offer the same.
My major limits are sexualized gore and violence, underage characters, and watersports/scat. Violence and bloodshed in a story context is fine, someone could get shot in the head while trying to escape, but no one should be getting off to it.
Please send a DM with thoughts, ideas, and anything else you'd like to discuss.
Slowly he shuffled his way through the trailer, every staggering step a monumental effort through the impossible hangover. Bottles were scattered by his feet and clinked into each other as he kicked them, the carpet scratchy and disgusting beneath his bare feet. At some point he must have tried to change, wearing only a ragged pair of jeans with his shirt long gone. It exposed the body of an older man gone to pot, the decent abs and pecs he'd once cultivated now buried beneath a layer of fat, even his body hair starting to go gray with age. It seemed like there were more grays everyday, both on his head as well as mixed in the long, scraggly beard.
Finally he managed to throw the door open, wincing from the morning light and staring out in dull incomprehension. He looked like a wild man, filthy and bedraggled in stark contrast to the woman standing before the door. In this shitty trailer park filled with people one bad month away from being homeless, she was like a beacon of authority and wealth; blonde hair in a severe bun, spectacles perched on her nose, an impeccably tailored suit jacket over a white blouse and matching skirt past her knees and smart black heels. Someone like her simply didn't exist in a place like this. The two bruisers behind her, in suits of their own that stretched over massively muscular chests, were much more common. "Edgar Daniels?" she asked in quick, crisp syllables.
"Who the fuck wants to know?" he nearly slurred in return, hazy brown eyes keeping an eye on the two men who were watching him from behind large, mirrored sunglasses. Christ, it was too early for the damned repo men or whatever the fuck this was. "I don't have time for this-"
"You are Edgar Daniels," she repeated, this time with certainty. "We would like you to come with us."
He blinked a few times, not quite understanding. He didn't owe money to anyone, did he? Or at least not anyone dangerous or important. "Well, who the fuck are you?" he demanded, clinging tightly to the door frame to avoid just collapsing entirely.
"We have interest regarding your activities thirty years ago, at the University of South-"
Edgar was moving before she finished. With every trace of intoxication gone he slammed the door shut, only to hear it crash into the shoulder of one of the goons as he turned. In a few quick strides he was down the hallway, in the bathroom, door locked. Fingers that felt as thick as sausages fumbled with the window, undoing the latch and throwing it open just in time for the door to crash open as the lock shattered from the goon's charge. He tried to shout, only to feel the metal studs of a taser and electric agony tearing his world apart.
\--------------------------------------
When Edgar woke up he groaned loudly, trying to press his head into his hands. Only for his arms to remain still, bound by his wrists behind him. Everything was dark, only pinpricks of light filtering through. Shifting slowly he tried to take stock; he was alive. Excellent, step one covered. He was half sitting and half lying on a leather seat, rumbling all around him. A car?
Movement, someone else with him, and he let out another cry as the sack was pulled away from his head. Blinking against the light he looked around; a car, a \*nice\* car, a limousine in fact. The blonde woman was seated across from him, watching him dispassionately, with the goons barely visible up front through the tinted glass.
"Edgar Daniels, formerly Michael Willis," she sad in the same professional manner, her cold eyes practically daring him to challenge the claim. "Attended the University of South Carolina from 1989 to 1991, majoring in Biology and Chemistry. In March of 1991, you were accused of having kidnapped, drugged and raped three female students."
He didn't say anything, couldn't. All he could do was lay there as the scenario he'd always feared played out before his very eyes. "You fled the campus before you could be arrested. The same night, a fire destroyed the school's chemistry labs, believed to have been set by you in order to cover your escape.
"Three months later, hundreds of female students came forward claiming to have also been assaulted by you. Details varied, but all claimed to have only recently remembered being drugged and forced to act as sexual servants to you and many other male students. Many produced video evidence, but everything showed them as active and willing participants. The story was put down as a hoax, young women attempting to use you to downplay their own indiscretions."
"Yeah," he started to say, a faint flicker of hope coming into view. "Yeah, they made it up. I never-"
"Others," the woman went on, his heart sinking all over again, "believed that you had used some novel form of narcotic to override their free will and force their compliance, and that the destruction of the chemistry labs was to erase evidence of both your misdeeds and your research."
There it was, and he knew his face was utterly failing to conceal the absolute truth of the woman's words. It was different days, back when he was young, cocky, convinced that he would never be caught. What started as tweaking his girlfriend's personality had become legions of devoted servants, the entire campus a playground for his whims. But he'd made a mistake, used a new formula without proper testing, and it was all over. Then he'd realized how dangerous it was. How a single flaw could backfire so spectacularly. And what would happen if anyone ever found out that his research still existed in his own mind. Vanishing was the only way out.
She was still staring at him, as if waiting for him to try pointless denials. Instead he slowly managed to haul himself up to a seated position, his eyes empty of fear. In some ways, it was a relief. Now, one way or another, the running was finally over. "So now," he said slowly, staring into her eyes. "Which is it? You're either here to kill me, or to recruit me."
The faintest hint of a smile, the woman's lips curling slightly upwards. "Correct. My employer would like to offer you a laboratory and a sizable salary."
Recruitment, then. The bullet was almost preferable, but this way at least carried the promise of escape. "And who is he going to be using it all on?"
"I'm sure *she* will be happy to explain everything once we've arrived," the woman said, her smile becoming a little wider when he blinked in obvious surprise.
"She?"
\---------------------------------------------------
Looking for someone to take the role of an evil woman, the 'employer' in the prompt, who's more than happy to encourage and enable the evil of a former mind controller and all around bastard. She should be someone with plenty of power and underworld connections; that could be a crime boss in her own right, a powerful corporate executive, or just an independently wealthy woman who has a list of victims she'd like to see be stripped of their free will.
The dynamic here is quite interesting. She needs his work, not the man himself, and he only lives as long as he can remain indispensable in the production of his mind-altering serums. But as long as he is, she's eager to keep him compliant with money, sex, playthings of his own, whatever it takes to advance her own goals. Does she want to control her rivals? Traffick in mind-controlled slaves? Destroy other women and men just because she can? Or does she secretly wish for her own will to be eroded and claimed?
As for him, a man with his knowledge and access to materials is incredibly dangerous. The moment his captor makes a mistake he could drug her and seize control, but in the meantime he needs to keep her happy just in case she decides to torture the formula out of him. Does he comply with all of her demands? Negotiate for better treatment for himself? Conduct secret research of his own to erode her power base from within and prepare for a coup? Or just accept the role of a criminal drug doc?
It becomes a twisted game of cat and mouse, two predators just waiting for the other to show hints of weakness while never being sure if overtures of friendliness are real or not. And all the while she has her own plans for the narcotics he produces. Does he agree with them? Is he horrified by them? What lines are they each willing to cross? And if he does falter, what would she do to convince him to go ahead?
Given the nature of this, the ideal partner would obviously be someone comfortable playing multiple roles, as would I. My initial thought is for each of us to have our main predatory character (the doctor and the employer) while we each play out victims for the other. (I play the men/women she wishes to have controlled, you play whatever victims he seizes for himself.) I'm generally a dom, but part of this is to help me stretch those creative muscles and write more sub roles. Other arrangements are certainly possible.
I try to write at least one good post a day, but cannot always make that. My own schedule is erratic enough that I ask for flexibility regarding response times, and happily offer the same.
My major limits are sexualized gore and violence, underage characters, and watersports/scat. Violence and bloodshed in a story context is fine, someone could get shot in the head while trying to escape, but no one should be getting off to it.
Please send a DM with thoughts, ideas, and anything else you'd like to discuss.