literature

Tenta Sniper

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Literature Text

He awoke in water, deep enough to drown in. The lights shining in his eyes remained even hours after a needle drove into his skin. Arms bore the signs of metal and leather bindings and he rubbed them with out thinking. No more voices, no more hands. His nerves replayed the violations even as his vision focused. No, it is done. Silence, save for the water flowing around him.

Eyes went wide. His nose, his mouth all under the surface breathing in unnatural liquid. Another vile reminder in his mind; being shoved under, head kept down until he near blacked out. Again they said. We'll test him again after more injections. Reflexes clenched at the realization and his head shot up, mouth vomiting a lung full of water.

Pain in his limbs from the motion. He shut his eyes trying to breath. Air in his chest now, an old comfort. A flash of memory. Scalpels on his face, a point directed at his helpless pupil propped open with clamps. Bringing a hand up he rubbed his temple, swatting the area free of haunting surgical tools. New pain. For the first time since he awoke he took in his surroundings but stopped dead, staring at his hands.

Tanned skin, still scared from battles, adventure and mistakes. The texture bled into another, consumed in the end. Black flesh, hairless and smooth dominated most of his forearm leaving his hand a shadow against the rocky walls. As an insult long nails curved from each finger with impressive strength. No wonder his forehead hurt.

"Bloody hell."

So that is why those monsters crowded around his arms, poking, prodding, measuring. He never saw. Strapped down and kept sedated there was little he ever noticed aside from the lights and the pain. A small favor or a curse. At least his altered arms worked the same as before. The same could not be said for his legs.

That he recalled. One day he woke up on the table and could not feel them. Removed? Replaced? He never found out. What he did know were what sat in their place now. All eight of them. He looked down. They spread out all around him in the water, black as his hands with a lighter under belly. Sick twisted doctors. He felt his gut churn as they writhed on their own accord. Even worse he could feel every rock they touched and prodded.

Where did they even get a bloomin octopus?

One curled up enough for him to see the row of suckers as they expanded and contracted. They were his alright. Just thinking about shifting his now missing legs caused movement. Confusion, never in his control. They'd wander, cling to his precious remaining human form. Such a slimy touch pricking nerve endings from both sides. He slapped them away before suckers clung.

He felt his thighs where he ended and the beast began. A slick feel helped by his new hands left him shuddering. To touch something that his brain registered as part of his body, alien, with its own will. He tried moved them again, something simple. Some responded, lifting up but the rest tightened and coiled at the tips. A raspy sigh.

He rolled onto his back to stare up. Not one to lay in water his new additions felt cooler in the small pool as did his own skin. As if he could just waltz off to a nice bed. Not at the base, not in the lab. A ceiling just above climbed irregularly creating a great roof in some places and thin enclosures in others. Light poured through tiny cracks high above and water could be heard flowing all around. His own pool drained into a much larger collection a few meters drop down while refreshed by a crack in the far wall.

No holes no clear passage, just the small cliff he sat on. As a human he'd be able to climb down with ease and explore, find a way out. The closest ledge hovered like the next stair a meter down from his elevated pool. From there more drops but no gaps just uneven ground petering along the edge of the large pool below. Fifteen or so meters to there with a nice deep bottom far from view. Peeking over he scoffed. What did he do? Fly?

The mere thought of navigating coarse rock and murky silt left his new appendages curling up to match his disgust. An attempt to test whatever dexterity he had left: rising off his arms he balanced with a new gravity. Despite being so close to the ground he faltered, falling back on his hands. Another try. He gave them a feel and in turn they felt for him. Muscles responded, keeping him upright. Now to move.

The prospect of figuring out his new limbs provided a fine distraction to his predicament. Here it came, back to remind him. Lost. Alone. No weapons no food. Nothing. Concentration slipped. He failed to control them, cursing in frustration at the random twitching as he fell back down again. They could be manipulated but it felt as if he had a whole new body. Still their strength impressed him as he sat back up.

Or was it standing now? Focusing he commanded one to rise before him, suckers reaching. Clawed hand reached out to meet slimy flesh. It wrapped around his fingers, clinging on its own accord. A peace offering, from what he did not know. A twitch, a reaction, involuntary, was not unheard of. But these searched, poked and coiled with out so much as a fleeting thought from him. He gave a long sigh. At least they were not trying to kill him.

Freeing his hand he tried again. Coordination from each tentacle perhaps. Must he walk on them like a bed of snakes? Or perhaps use them to pull himself. Forward he slithered, pitifully slow. He had to concentrate on each to reach out, grasp the ground and drag him. In trying to get them to sync up he froze, clinging to the rocks with his claws. Foolish wanker. Dust and pebbles rolled off the edge down into the gaping pool below, sinking into obscurity.

Muscles tightening. He didn't want to be next. Light from above gave him only a meager view of the rest of the chamber. Stone, water, all reaching deeper into the dark. Two tentacles fell over, hanging with their additional weight. Claws dug in further only to grind and not in the direction he wanted. He wondered if he was next, to sink down into the shadows. Memories of treading water, a boat sinking. He could manage to stay afloat but for how long? Three more over the edge. As a last effort he pleaded with the remaining three to hold on, pull him up, anything.

First one than two joined the rest. Hands burned from the exertion to grip. The last rolled, slapping him in the face on the way down. Heavier than legs, it figured. He spat, cursing, feeling his fingers slip. One last cloud of dust as his hold failed. Cold water impacted with his naked skin but the sting of an improper dive did not worry him. They say the fall never kills you, the ground does. Water swelled in, consuming his form as it sank like a rock leaving him staring up at the last bits of fleeting light.

Moments later he met the ground, landing softly on fine silt over smoothed rock. Chest tightened, mouth clamped shut. He had tried to swim, tried to use his arms but they were no match for the dead weight of his useless body. Still he tries, frantically slashing at the water with his arms, begging the tentacles to aid. The need for oxygen proved too great. Closing his eyes he inhaled, thinking of that last month before he'd be free of the job, on the road again with money, plans. As water strangled his lungs he scowled. They had no intention of letting him go.

Nerves twitched at the fluid now full in him. He convulsed, collapsing fully to the bed of the lake, cursed tentacles around him. Dizziness grew in his head, thoughts clouding. Yet the desire to breathe still screamed at him. Brain took over, instinct. He exhaled, immediately taking in another lung full. To his surprise water did not leave through his mouth. Instead he felt the cool rush tingle his neck, a relief spreading out from the area. Confused he stroked with his hand and felt tenderness like one feels between their fingers.

Wot?

His shocked word only floated up to the surface. Slits, three of them on either side of his neck. They stretched around like short fingers, opening as he breathed. Careful with his claws he stroked them, amazed at the sensitive nerve ending. Inside he could feel frills, small and delicate causing, him to pull back in fear of damaging them. He had not died. Yet. A concept sprang to mind and he hoped that was the case. Gills. If those bloody doctors made him into some kinda sea monster they better have gave him gills too.

The resulting oxygen cleared his mind and banished the panic his body had entered. Rising, he steadied himself upright, looking around at the vast, carved out lake and towering walls leading to the surface. Now what? He knew he couldn't climb back up, that would take a miracle. Tentacles floated now, exploring. Fear caught him, hunger. He couldn't stay here. What ever adrenaline fueled his little adventure drained away. Any bushman knows the necessity of a shelter. Though he didn't expect anything larger than a trout down here who knows what else the medics dumped. A shudder down his spine.

Several cracks and creviced dotted the side closest to him. One in particular held promise: a place to hide and rest. As water filled his chest over and over he felt a need to crawl into a small place and curl up. That and the painful pounding of hunger. Work with me, body. Movement proved easier, fluid granting substance for his limbs to float rather than lay on the ground. Leaning forward he gathered up the silt in his claws and heaved. It worked, in a way. His slick tentacles combined with the water allowed him to drag himself, crawling inch by inch, pulling his bothersome new limbs as they hung around him.

Slow going but he made good progress. Stopping to rest he glanced up. Just a bit father. Checking to make sure he was all still there he leaned down for another grip. A shape darted behind him. At first he thought it to be a small fish swimming by. Eyes widened. Not a small creature close up but a much larger one farther away. Neck strained as he turned, following the movement. A long shape, agile, circling. Twisted, disgusting doctors. He swallowed his fear, trying to understand the figure he stared at.

Out of instinct teeth bared, tentacles coiled into powerful bundles of muscles ready to strike. Figures. Didn't matter where he went, to hell, to the bottom of a cave, they always turned up.  It approaches, keeping a distance, eyeing the demonstration of fang and claw. Same inhuman body, half man half octopus. Tentacles gathering under it as if to taunt the Sniper for his lack of control over his. Much slower now it closed the gap between them, a grin displaying teeth just as sharp as his. Bloody spies.

A spy. It had to be a spy. Not some mutant crocodile or giant shark. No: a sneaky, rotten, back stabbing spy. He wanted to let his body tear the man to pieces. A doubt, fingers clenching in terror. What match was he now to a Spy, one that was lucky enough to control his new body. All he could manage was a glare as he watched the thing's every single move.

The grin turned softer. It made a gesture: up. Fat chance wanker. They stared at each other until the Sniper decided to continue to the hole. Perhaps if he had a wall to back up against he could fight. A tentacle wrapped around his arm. He snarled, the low rumble emanated clear even under water. To his surprise the Spy backed off but didn't fully leave. Dragging himself he made it to the side and looked up. The Spy circled, closing in slowly. He found that another threat pushed him back again. Perhaps the spook wasn't so well off. Fresh injuries on his bare chest and arms. Better stay way mate or I'll make em worse.

At last a break. When reaching up to gain a hold on the rock wall he found it easy, claws granting a firm grip. Before ascending he shot a scowl at the Spy. Distant but hovering. Hauling himself up he always kept one eye on the slippery git. Easy. He slid himself in, unruly tentacles and all, through the hole. As soon as he gathered his barring he whirled around, growling. Sure enough there floated the Spy just outside, a confused look on his face. Driven by instinct more than with own wishes the Sniper lashed out with a clawed hand, nearly missing. His long nails left a fierce mark on the outside to remind any who wanted to try him. The last he saw of the Spy were his tentacles disappearing farther down into the distance but he'd be a fool if he didn't know the piker would be back.

Now alone and relatively safe his thoughts barraged him. Monsters, how many down here? How do get food? How to get out? Shut up shut up! He didn't care, he couldn't, or else rest would escape him forever. The small hovel he had found held a good amount of space. Happily he noticed it lead up to an air picket and a small place to sit. At once he took a breath of air but found himself sputtering at the imbalance inside his body. Only after exhaling all his water did regular breathing feel natural again.

If only he could sleep up here. Not enough space, certainly not for his new accoutrements writhing below. Weary and sore he let himself sink into the most comfortable position he could find. Before settling completely he looked out the exit. No sign of the Spy. In front of him laid his misshapen hands. He found himself unable to sleep until he moved them away, along with the tentacles.
He sucks at being a tenta
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Late to the party (as usual) but I'd like to read more!! PLEEAAAASSSEEEEE?!?!?! *big sad tentamedic eyes*