Just a Silco simp looking for a fix. All fics are 18+ and on AO3. Minors DNI. Call me Coi! (they/them). Other blorbos: Erik (POTO), Ghoul (Fallout), Fr Paul (Midnight Mass). Banner by @deny-the-issue
I was absolutely inspired by this beautiful Silco fanart by @spoczkot. Kintsugi—repairing broken pottery with gold—is such an incredible concept that I couldn't help but think of when I saw the shiny gold ink used for this art. Naturally, it made me think of Silco and his scars. That spiraled into this one-shot.
A storm in the Undercity has you remembering one from your past. Silco, fresh from Vander's betrayal, has to learn how to cope with his new face and broken revolution. You're there to comfort him and get him back on his feet.
Fading in and out of consciousness, you're only aware of two things: a ringing sensation in your ears like your head was a bell that someone rang hard, and the unbearable soreness of your shoulders as your arms are pulled back behind you, wrists bound.
My posture is bad enough as is, this isn't gonna help.
As your vision becomes clearer and you manage to stay awake long enough, you take stock of your body. Looking down, you find pants that have seen better days; they're cut up and covered in blood. The question of whose blood will have to be answered later.
Still got two legs, that's good.
You try to kick your feet but they're bound to the chair legs. You can still feel them, some sort of chain binding wrapped around the ankles. You wiggle your toes. No pain, and they seem like they’re all there.
That's good, too.
You wink one eye and then the other.
Both eyes still working. Good.
You run your tongue over your teeth, tasting iron as you do.
Got all my teeth. We're not doing too bad.
After assessing the rest of you, checking for all ten fingers, one working nose, and two working—but very distressed—ears, you come to the conclusion that whatever is happening to you hasn't actually started yet. The main event is still to come.
Which means you have time.
Time to formulate a plan to get out of here. Who did this to you and why doesn’t matter right now. What’s paramount is getting out of these bindings and running the hell out of here, wherever here is.
Whoever bound you did a good job of it; no amount of shoulder dislocating or wrist breaking would be enough to slip out of your restraints. You work your tongue in your mouth, thinking.
Surveying the room, it’s near impossible to discern where you are. The space itself is all concrete with no markings to give you a hint of its location. A single window is to your right with one large metal door in front of you. It almost looks like a garage.
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