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Scarfiotti shot an unimpressed look. “We’re allowing Prime Assets to be armed now?” he said. “With live ammunition?”
Easterman shrugged one shoulder, not particularly enjoying the accusatory tone the man was taking on with him. “He got creative and found his own.” For emphasis, he bared his teeth and clinked his nail against the surface.
Limitation breeds creativity. Franco was the very living proof of it, utilizing bone matter and teeth to create his buckshots.
With admiration coloring his words, Easterman added, “I won’t punish his ingenuity after it’s led to such impressive results for the survivors. As of late, reagent brain activity has been nothing short of stimulating-”
Scarfiotti shook his head, scoffing. “We don’t have infinite resources. The new environment alone cost us a pretty penny, and now you want us to take heavy losses in our reagent population because…”
“It’s necessary.”
“It’s insanity.”
Easterman sighed. He knew Avellanos had been right in saying that Scarfiotti would find out about Franco’s “teething incident” eventually, but he hadn’t been looking forward to having this conversation with him. Just as he had anticipated, Scarfiotti was inflexible and too quick to shut down ideas, butting heads with him at every opportunity. It only made it easier for the architect to miss things that were right in front of him. Easterman didn’t work like that.
Usually whenever arguments came up, they would eventually agree to disagree and move on. But Scarfiotti was especially relentless today. And soon it became apparent why. “I heard from a junior scientist that you were engaging in perverse acts with Franco’s Lupara.”
“What—perverse acts?” Easterman repeated, sputtering.
Scarfiotti’s eyes hardened. “You know exactly what I’m referring to.”
“No, I don’t. It’s clear that there’s been some level of miscommunication here.”
“So you’re denying the fact that you forced an employee to threaten you with the end of a shotgun?”
“That’s—”
“And you’re claiming that you did not demote said employee to custodial duties as repercussion for refusing your request?”
Easterman parted his lips, but no words came out. In disbelief, he could merely chuckle. “This is all taken out of context. It’s important for enhancing the environmental design of the Trials. The docks are meant to be a manifestation of Franco’s mental state. To fully encapsulate it, we have to discard rigid societal beliefs and embrace the taboo hallmarks of his psyche. How can one do that without proper understanding?”
Scarfiotti massaged the bridge of his nose. It was a wonder he hadn’t already walked out in frustration. “And how exactly does putting his Lupara in your mouth play into that?”
“Can’t you feel it? There is a power there that can’t be found in other means,” Easterman remarked. “Just the sight of it alone is enough to inflict a pressure upon your mental fortitude.”
“It’s a gun, for Christ’s sake. Most people feel nervous around guns.”
“I didn’t say nervous. I said pressure,” Easterman said. “It’s a persistent psychic pressure. Not at all unpleasant with an almost addictive quality to it. It’s… difficult to describe. I’ve been trying to locate its exact cause.”
Scarfiotti tossed up his hands. “Then let’s remove it from Franco’s custody in the meantime until you figure it out. That way we can prevent even more reckless-”
“No.”
Scarfiotti stopped. “No?”
Easterman looked up. “We’re discussing a man whose weapon serves as his phallus. To deprive him of it would be no different from castration.”
Scarfiotti glowered. “Then what are you saying? Don’t tell me you intend to continue looking into this with the gun still in his care?”
Easterman smiled wryly. Scarfiotti would sooner walk away than admit it, but it was obvious in everything from his stance to his incredulous roar. “There it is. You can feel its influence lingering over you like a hangman’s noose even at the very mention of it. Does that not fascinate you?”
“You’re mad,” Scarfiotti snapped.
“All men that question the way of the world are deemed as such,” Easterman mused, turning in his chair. His eyes rested upon the camera of Franco Barbi’s holding cell, where his Lupara sat just out of his reach on the bedside table.
Franco was a walking patchwork of contradictions. He boasted about masculinity and ego, not too dissimilar from Leland Coyle in his need to control and overpower, and yet, he simultaneously craved submission and discipline, placing the weaker sex on a pedestal and degrading himself as a mere baby. It wasn’t purely sexual in nature, this longing. But there was no denying that lust played its part in this careful balance.
Of all the Prime Assets, Franco Barbi was the apple of his eye. He was beautiful and intriguing, just begging to be put under the microscope.
While the reagents felt like Easterman's precious children, the Prime Assets were his instruments. He could tune them and play them and create sweet music so long as he chose a piece and environment that would complement them well. Franco was the most delicate of all in this incorporation, requiring an especially careful hand as the living epitome of nature vs nurture.
Easterman stepped up to the cell door without a moment of hesitation. Although he never made any appearances in front of the reagents, save his voice, the Prime Assets were spared the same fate. Whether or not they saw his face made little difference to him. His admiration for them was a different brand altogether, closer to partners than the teacher-student relationship he shared with the reagents.
Franco’s breathing was heavy, even in his sleep. To Easterman’s surprise, he even managed to make the belts restraining him look comfortable. Curled up on one side, he sucked away at his thumb, a self-soothing technique brought about by the perioral reflex. It was an involuntary movement that led him to instinctively seek out a mother’s breast to suckle on, a habit that he had never outgrown. A perfect baby boy.
Easterman unlocked the cell door. As quiet as he tried to be, it was impossible to eliminate all traces of noise. The clanging of metal was notoriously loud, and as expected, Franco’s eyes shot wide open.
With a groggy groan, he looked around before meeting Easterman’s face with a glare full of heated recognition. Tearing his thumb away, he spat, “The fuck are you lookin’ at?!”
Easterman paid him no mind. He had spent so much time observing Franco among the others that he held no fear for him. He simply reached out to hold his Lupara, weighing it in his hands. It had been a few days now since he had last touched it.
Franco’s eyes popped out like they were going to jump right out of the sockets. “Get your hands off my Lupara, you rat motherfucker!”
The pads of Easterman’s fingers were soft against the wooden comb, tracing the fine details engraved in its surface. “Do you know why I’ve come here today?”
“How the fuck would I know somethin’ like that?” Franco shot back. “You assholes keep comin’ down here to gawk and gape like I’m some kinda zoo animal. Do I look like a monkey to you?”
“On the contrary, maybe you’re the one looking at me like a zoo animal,” Easterman said. “It’s all about perspective. Maybe you’re on the outside looking in. Maybe I’m the one in a cage, surrounded by rats and liars.” He looked up to meet Franco’s eyes with a gentle smile. “Who’s to say which world is the real one? Everything you could ever want is inside these walls.”
“Oh, we’ll see about that,” Franco snarled.
“Right now, you must want your Lupara,” Easterman said. He stroked the side of the barrel with one finger. “It suits you well. I can’t imagine it fitting into anyone else’s hands quite as nicely.”
“Come closer, and I’ll show you where else it’ll fit, coglione.”
Easterman’s heart leapt at the threat. How odd. So he hadn’t imagined it at all. There was an undeniable attraction to this weapon. He needed to dig deeper into this. Just what about the perceived power behind this shotgun made him feel like something was crawling through his innards? This psychic pressure… Just what could he do to make the feeling even stronger?
If Scarfiotti were here, he would surely scold his recklessness and slam down any further propositions he made in the future. Idiocy, he would deem it. That was how easily the man was willing to cast away progress, unwilling to admit that the process behind experimentation was rarely ever so pretty and simple. Loss and sacrifice and perplexion occurred more often than success. Easterman knew this better than anyone. True solutions were rare to come by.
Easterman set the Lupara back down on the side table with a light thud, not bothering to empty it of its ammunition. This was for obvious reasons. While limitation could breed creativity, there was nothing of value to be found in lack. He needed the full impact of this weapon to understand its influence over him.
“I’ve only come here to ask that you assist me in a small manner,” Easterman said. “Sergeant Coyle has been questioning our decision to allow you to keep your Lupara during the Trials.”
“That’s fuckin’ bullshit,” Franco shouted. “That dick-swingin’ motherfucker don’t know what he’s talkin' about!”
“I agree,” Easterman answered with a sympathetic nod. “But if I can’t convince my research partners, then that is the reality we face. Help me convince them that your Lupara belongs here, belongs with you. And I will do everything in my power to make your stay here even more comfortable.”
Franco paused, letting his eyes roam up and down Easterman’s body as if to look for any hints of deception. When his gaze stopped at the bulky shape in the pocket of his suit jacket, Easterman presented the item with a warm smile.
“The fuck is that?” Franco asked, squinting down at the glass bottle in Easterman’s hand.
“A gesture of good faith,” Easterman said. “I heard you have a preference for Wolf’s Milk.”
“You’ve done your research, doc,” Franco said. It was as close to impressed as the mafioso had sounded with him thus far. Good. Easterman needed him to think that they were on the same side. Just docile enough that he would go through with whatever he requested of him next.
Easterman lowered the bottle to Franco’s mouth, pushing the nipple past his lips encouragingly. Franco closed his eyes, sucking away and groaning in enjoyment. Easterman may not be a mother, but it was easy for Il Bambino to pretend if he closed his eyes and suckled in silence, savoring the thick concoction on his tongue.
Easterman had tried it himself out of curiosity once and had found it much too sweet for his liking, sickeningly so. It was no surprise that Franco would crave such a bizarre concoction. The man had a sweet tooth that bordered on the obscene.
Franco wet his lips with his tongue after Easterman took the bottle away and set it aside with the Lupara. He seemed a lot less cranky, alert and raring to go. But even more importantly, Franco was tolerant of Easterman’s presence now that he had proven himself to be trustworthy. Baby steps, but Easterman was nothing if not patient.
“This is just the bare minimum of what I can offer you, but only if I have your full cooperation,” Easterman told him.
Franco leaned his head back, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’m listening.”
“I’m going to be removing your restraints. When I do, you have my permission to hold onto your Lupara,” Easterman explained. “In fact, I encourage it. But no harm must befall me. It's a simple request, all in exchange for the promise of gifts in the future. I’m sure it must get lonely here. I could bring you any number of whores off the street to do with as you please.”
“Anything I please?” Franco said with a cocked brow. “You sure about that? I tend to make a mess when I’m havin’ my fun.”
Franco didn’t believe Easterman’s words blindly. He was a suspicious sort, Easterman had gathered, and he expected nothing less from the son of a mafia don. Doubt was what had kept him alive. Easterman, on the other hand, didn’t have the luxury of mistrust. Belief was the very foundation of his research. It was all that motivated him, even if it was sometimes fueled by petty spite. If he didn’t believe, then who would?
Easterman brushed off his concerns. “Sinyala Facility has seen its share of messes. It’s nothing new to us.”
Franco let the words sink in for a moment before he finally nodded. “Fine. Let’s hear what you've got for me, doc. If it ain’t too much trouble, I’ll lend you a hand. I don’t got nothin’ better to do anyhow.”
He wasn’t leaping for joy, nothing of the sort, but he was easing up more and more by the minute. Easterman could no longer sense any tension in his shoulders. He was capable of so much violence and bloodshed, but Easterman was almost completely positive that he would be spared of it for now.
Easterman narrated his every movement as he slowly approached, wanting to keep Franco at ease. Unstrapping the restraints was nothing new to him, and he was able to get them undone without any trouble. The second the last strap was loosened from Franco’s chest, the ill-tempered man made a swipe for his Lupara.
Easterman didn’t show any signs of fear. He had nothing to be scared of. Franco’s shotgun was his baby rattle, another of his self-soothing tools. Let him have his security blanket. It would be vital for this next segment.
Franco’s grip hardened around the firearm, his eyes never straying from Easterman, even as he slipped off the bed and got into a guarded position. “Alright,” he drawled. “You got my ear, so what d’ya want?”
Easterman hadn’t been able to finish uncovering his findings when he had done this a couple days prior with a junior scientist. Apparently the nature of the experiment had been too disturbing for them, and they had backed out before things went “too far.” Such naivety. Such irresolution. They all should understand by now that there was no such thing as progress without pain. Discomfort was an easy price to pay for comprehension.
Before Easterman knew it, there he was again, his knees pressing into the cold concrete as if he were about to pray to his maker for forgiveness. “Your Lupara… I want you to put it to my head.”
Franco stared.
And stared.
And stared.
Until:
“The fuck kinda stunt d’ya think you’re pullin’ here?” he demanded.
Figures. Everyone seemed to have the same first impression whenever he proposed this to them. “I can assure you that my intentions are completely transparent,” he said. “It is for the sake of my research alone that I ask you to do this.”
Easterman needed to reach the pivotal point this time around. He was so close, he could feel it.
The Lupara was an extension of Franco’s manhood. It was his compensation for what he lacked in other departments, and Easterman did not fault him for it.
Franco shoved the metal bore against the space between Easterman’s brows. The pressure was insistent, and all of the cells in his body stood at high alert. Franco sneered, “You got a death wish or somethin’, stronzo?”
Easterman closed his eyes to relish the sensation. There was a comfort in his position, in the press of the gun. “I imagine that this is the closest an individual might be to godhood,” he said.
“The fuck’re you yappin’ about?” Franco snapped.
Easterman looked Franco in the eyes, unflinching. “Tell me. How does it feel to have one’s life in your hands? As mortal beings, every day we create, we destroy… An endless cycle of birth and decay, and right now, you alone are in the position of choosing what fate will befall me. Does that not make you godlike?”
Franco immediately recoiled, lips smacking in disgust as he took his Lupara away with him. The kiss of the barrel lingered, and even just brief seconds later, Easterman was already longing for its return.
“Why did you stop?” he asked.
“This some kinda fetish thing or somethin’?” Franco hissed.
“What gave you that impression?”
The grimace was impossible to miss. “You, the way you’re lookin’ at me… It’s makin’ my fuckin’ skin crawl.”
“I can’t imagine why,” Easterman said, cocking his head in puzzlement.
With one exasperated sigh, Franco just shook his head. “Jesus Christ,” he huffed out. “How long is this gonna take?”
“Not long at all,” Easterman assured him. “This time, I want you to place it in my mouth.”
“You want me to do what?”
“Just the tip,” he clarified. “I want to be able to taste it.”
The particular request must have struck Franco as so odd that even he had to take a step back and stress, “Why?”
Was it really so difficult for people to understand? Scarfiotti had already given him a hard enough time. To think someone like Franco Barbi would even be following in his footsteps with all these pesky questions…
Easterman gestured over himself as he said, “One’s body is their sanctuary. Your skin is only surface level. It’s safe, it’s familiar. It protects the unseen, your mind, your heart, your pride… So how can one reach the truth hidden beyond the veil?”
Franco groaned, “How the fuck’m I supposed to know that?”
It was clear Easterman was going to need to take a different approach with him, or risk Franco refusing to follow through with this little experiment. “Put yourself in your father’s shoes. Let’s say he suspects a rat among your family.”
“Yeah?”
“He then gets his hands on, say, a law officer who was being fed intel. How would he make the officer confess the name of this rat?”
Franco didn’t hesitate. “Torture.”
Easterman relaxed as a smile spread across his face. So Franco wasn’t completely hopeless.
“You have to pierce the physical to see what lies beneath. And there are few disruptors more influential than the feeling of being violated,” he said. “Only when the walls of your sanctuary are breached can you fully comprehend what it means to be vulnerable.”
Vulnerability was the key to reshaping one’s psyche. Stripping away everything that you think you know and replacing it with something else entirely. The mind was a powerful tool and would adjust to accommodate an intrusion. He believed this so strongly that he was ready and willing to confirm it for himself with the end of a shotgun.
He parted his lips in offering, welcoming the Lupara into his mouth. Franco was reluctant, confusion still written across his features, as he obliged him. The shotgun was bigger than expected, too big. He had to stretch his lips around to even fit it inside, heavy as it was. As he did so, it was impossible to hold himself back from tracing his tongue over the surface. He wanted to engrave it into memory, this taste, this feeling.
Easterman’s face heated up. God help him, but it was such an exquisite sensation. On his knees like this with his mouth filled up and assaulted with something that could ruin him in the blink of an eye. The power imbalance was like a drug. To submit to it was nothing short of bliss. This must be what the reagents felt like whenever Easterman spoke down to them, showering them in humiliation and contempt. Oh, it was giving him so many splendid ideas…
Franco reeled back his head, nose crinkling. “You into this shit, you perverted fuck?”
It was true. Easterman’s cock was throbbing as it swelled. Even Irene had never managed to get him this hard.
He flicked his tongue over the side, a rush of pleasure soaring through him at the taste of iron and copper. Easterman lay his tongue flat against the bore, ringing a circle around the hole as his mind was assaulted with the vivid image of his brain matter being split apart by a single buckshot. If he closed his eyes, just to focus on the movement of his own tongue, it was almost like being on the giving end of oral sex. Almost.
But there was something different about it that he couldn’t put his finger on. This was a whole new experience that he was slowly unraveling, and he wanted more.
Was it like dancing with the concept of your own death? A flirtation with suicidal tendencies and tempting yourself with the narrowing edge of release? Was it the submissive nature of it, the sacrificing of your mind and body to another, accepting that their will took precedence over your own? For the first time in ages, Easterman was putting control into someone else’s hands.
The fear and nerves left his body, replaced by a thrill-seeking desperation that would be more appropriately suited for the reagents.
Still, he didn’t stop.
Deeper.
Deeper.
Until he was gagging on the barrel.
His cock felt tight and tense to the point that he needed to touch it. His hips bucked against his clasped hands, eager to rub against himself. He had thought he was being subtle about it, but one explosive curse from Franco made it clear that he wasn’t so lucky to go unnoticed.
“Cazzo, this is some freaky sex thing. I fuckin' knew it!” Franco hissed.
Franco tore the gun out of his lips, leaving Easterman’s jaw sore. He ran his tongue over the inside of his cheek, already missing the way his mouth had been filled up by it. But he didn’t have to ponder on the emptiness for long.
Franco wasted no time as he shoved his Lupara against Easterman’s strained erection, twisting with an added pressure that made his breathing hasten.
“How’s that? You like that, you sick fuck?” Franco growled. “You like my Lupara so bad, I’ll shoot your dick off with it.”
Easterman groaned, his hips moving on their own. Where there should only have been horror was sweet bliss. There was freedom in one’s self-annihilation. Sacrificing his dignity for pleasure. Lust wrapped around his throat in the form of his own tight fingers, squeezing like a noose. His other hand coiled around Franco’s barrel, aiding in the pressure against his needy arousal.
He bit his lip as he became hypoxic, his mind drowning in feel-good chemicals as he submitted to the euphoria of the moment. He shut his eyes, focusing solely on all the sensations. The grunts under his breath, the stimulation against his groin.
Until it became too much. Close to the edge of passing out, his hand dropped from his throat as he wheezed, popping like a champagne bottle as his orgasm hit him hard. “Th-thank you…” Easterman choked out between strained moans, his hips jerking and twitching as he released his load. He silently bit out a curse as he slowly went still once again, his cock softening in his trousers as his mind recovered from the intensity of it all.
Franco growled, the light in his eyes ablaze with a sadistic glee as he clung to the opportunity to degrade him further. “Oh, that’s just fuckin’ precious. You’re a real sick bastard, you know that?”
The pleasure was too short-lived, leaving behind a strange and encompassing emptiness that followed. Cold clarity clawed at his mind, and Easterman forced himself back to his feet, even as his legs moved unsteadily beneath him.
The flush in his cheeks was atypical for the man, and he clasped a thoughtful hand over his mouth and chin as he regarded Franco. This wasn’t the first time he had made a mess of himself during work hours under the guise of research, and he was quick to school his expression back into one of contemplation.
“This was… an enlightening experience,” he answered breathlessly.
“Enlightening,” Franco scoffed. “Is that what they’re callin’ it these days?”
Easterman didn’t humor him with a reply as he swiftly exited the room, locking Franco away again behind the bars once more. It was difficult to ignore the bulging stare that followed his back as he stormed down the hallway.
With a glance down at the front of his trousers, a scowl formed. No doubt, Easterman would need to take some time to make himself presentable again before returning to public view. He had a feeling Scarfiotti would have a few choice words for him if he were to get word of this…