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The Pig focused her attention on a pair of aged yellow curtains surrounding a frost-coated window.
That's supposed to be red.
The longer she stared, the more the curtains warped and shimmered. The change was so slow and gradual, it was hard to tell anything had shifted at all. But look away, and look back, and you'd find tattered red curtains hanging over the window. That's how these realms worked.
The longer a killer remained in the fog, the dimmer and weaker their sense of self would become. Their drive and talent would fade as more and more of their mind gave in to the entity. Their bodies would distort, then crumble, then fade. As a fix, Killers were offered these realms as "rewards." Gifts for a particularly splendid hunt, or for hundreds of thousands of trials seen to their completion. Of course, The Entity wasn't a charitable being. These realms helped ground killers, and prevent the inevitable decay of their soul. And as little effort went into maintaining them as possible.
Even in a place as small as The Huntress's shack, things were rarely correct. Windows would be present or missing at random. The details of the hut - from the patterns on the cloth to the direction the grains on each log went - were rarely accurate. But if The Pig drew attention to it, and willed it to fix itself, then it did.
The Pig didn't quite know why she was here.
She was a weak killer. A new killer. She wasn't completely within The Entity's control. She couldn't leave, of course. No-one could. But she could think. She could decide where she went or what she said. She didn't remember her life - or even her old name - but she could learn and adapt.
The Pig noticed the fireplace was missing a poker. She stared and stared, until one manifested in its proper place
But, in spite of her ability, she was rarely called to assist in a trial. Each time she was summoned to a trial, she left exhausted and weak. It didn't matter how much blood she spilled, she didn't have the endurance to slaughter without breaks nor the ability to provoke fear.
She was weak.
But for some reason, The Huntress took a liking to her. The Huntress was…well she barely even existed anymore. The Pig didn't know how long she - nor anyone else - was in the fog, but The Huntress must have been one of the first brought within its fold. Or, perhaps more accurately, the earliest killer still remaining.
A dark pulse thrummed throughout the cabin. Everything came into focus a little clearer.
The Huntress was back.
The Pig could hear the snow outside crunching beneath The Huntress's feet. The footsteps approached, and The Pig looked at the door with anticipation. With a thud she set down her axe, and the front door was shoved open with a distinct lack of grace. The Huntress stood as tall as the door frame, and fresh splashes of frozen blood clung to her hair like ornaments. And- oh?
The Huntress entered the cabin, dragging a survivor behind her.
Ah, The Entity gave her a reward?
The Huntress paused, and stared at The Pig for only a brief moment before she turned and dragged the survivor to her bedroom. Though the survivor had been dragged face-down through the snow, her matted blonde hair and sleeveless jacket provoked an odd sense of nostalgia. Has The Pig killed this one before? It was hard to tell. They all looked so similar after a time.
The bedroom door slammed shut, and The Pig began her routine. She shut the front door, shivering as the cold Russian air bellowed into the building. It didn't seem to bother The Huntress, but still. It felt like the right thing to do. The Pig grabbed a dust pan and a cloth from the storage room, and got to work as weak screams began to sound from the bedroom.
By the time The Huntress got back to the shack, most of the blood on her body - and on her reward's body - was frozen. This made it easy to sweep up, along with whatever chunks of snow and ice she tracked in. The Pig could hear faint sobbing from the other room. Pleas for The Huntress to stop. The Pig blushed, but continued her work. Perhaps one day, she could…that's enough of those thoughts.
With the ice and blood tossed outside, she went over the floor with a cloth. An old rag, its fabric felt alien compared to the modern cloth her own clothes were made out of. A lot of The Huntress's stuff did, actually. The age of the cabin used to freak her out or frustrate The Pig in her first few visits here, but now it felt comforting. It felt like The Huntress.
The noise had stopped, The Huntress was done with her reward.
The Pig went to the bathroom, and started running some hot water in the bath. She turned, and faced The Huntress's bedroom door eagerly. It didn't take long before she emerged. Silent as usual, but with sweat stains bleeding through her clothes and a half-buckled belt hanging limply around her dress. Behind her, The Pig could barely make out the contorted body of the survivor, as black fog billowed out from beneath the bed and dragged her down through it.
Part of her always wondered if the survivors remembered these encounters. Does The Entity leave their minds intact, and feast on the fear of seeing their assaulter again? Or does it wipe the slate clean, and satiate itself on the repeated first time encounters?
It didn't really matter either way, but there wasn't much else to think about within the fog.
The Huntress walked into the bathroom, and lifted her arms over her head. The Pig stood, and gingerly undressed her one clasp at a time. The two were well-trained by this point, and The Huntress silently adjusted her posture in just the right ways so that The Pig - despite being shorter - could easily reach and slide everything off.
The Pig gently pulled The Huntress's shirt up and over her head, careful to not snag the cloth on the bunny ears of her mask. The Pig carefully folded the ratty shirt, and set it aside. The Huntress turned around, and presented the clasps to her bra for The Pig to undo. She blushed. She always blushed at this point. The bra was little more than a formality, but it's one The Pig insisted on. It took a while to get The Huntress to start wearing one. The first few attempts ended with…confrontations. But now? She likely didn't even think about it. It was automatic, like everything else in her life.
The Pig continued to undress her, undoing her belts and taking off her gear. The Pig slid The Huntress's sarafan down, and she coldly stepped out of them. Next came the underwear, another part she'd blush at. It was worse when The Huntress was given a reward. She could already see the wet cum stains seeping into her underwear, and the thought of her flaccid dick beneath was…
Enough.
She slid The Huntress's underwear down, and she stepped past The Pig and into the bath. The Pig took a second to compose herself, and finished folding all of The Huntress's clothes. She set them on a chair outside of the bathroom. The cabin didn't have any indoor laundry, but it seems that too was something The Entity took care of automatically. Any dirty clothes would disappear once out of sight, and any time fresh clothes were taken from the wardrobe a new set would appear as soon as it was opened.
The Pig returned and began bathing The Huntress. This was always her favorite part. It was quiet, intimate, and though neither of them said anything it was the closest she got to The Huntress.
The Huntress couldn't speak. The Pig didn't know whether she could before she was taken into the fog, or if it was due to The Entity affecting her mind, but she couldn't now. She was still conscious on some level at least. She rarely reacted to The Pig directly or responded to anything she said, but she still acknowledged her presence. In fact, she'd gotten better at that recently. Before, The Huntress wouldn't move out of The Pig's way. And she'd skip parts of their routine, making for some chaotic domestic scenes. But this? This was progress.
The Pig grabbed another cloth, and began to delicately wipe at The Huntress's mask. The two never took their masks off. Not for any real reason, it just felt wrong. Deeply wrong.
The Pig wasn't under any illusion of salvation. The Huntress was gone. She was little more than an animal by now. A tool of The Entity. She didn't talk, didn't sleep, and didn't eat. All she could do was kill, fuck, and satisfy any animal need that popped into her head. She was a human once, but that was long ago.
She set the cloth aside, and went back to scrubbing each arm once over with some soap. Wiping the blackened clumps of dirt from The Huntress's hands and feet.
Still, she felt some comfort in her presence. Maybe it was in having someone tangible to serve; Someone she could care for and feel human with. Maybe it was some base carnal attraction. Try as she might, she did feel envious of those who The Huntress fucked and killed. Maybe this was the work of The Entity. Some plot to twist her to its liking, some scheme to bring her further into its web. Or maybe this was a grim reminder.
"You'll end up like this too, someday."
The Huntress stood up, and The Pig followed after her. She grabbed a nearby towel, and gently dried off each part of The Huntress as professionally as she could. No matter how warm the bath was, The Huntress's skin was always cold to the touch. It had the softness and stretch of regular human skin, but a deep chill could be felt even through the warm towel.
The Huntress stood still, waiting for every drop to be dried. The Pig dutifully dried, the shifting of her clothes the only sound in the room. This was domestic. This was nice.
The Pig left the room, and quickly procured another set of clothing for The Huntress. And the ritual played out in reverse. Underwear was slid on, bras were clasped, and buttons were done. The Huntress now looked like she always did.
In a sense, this was pointless Sisyphean labor.
In a sense, this was human.
The Huntress stirred, and silently walked to an old ragged sofa in the living room. She ran her hand against it, and sat down. Motionless once more. The Pig followed suit, and sat next to her.
The Huntress stirred again. She raised her arm, and grabbed the back of The Pig's mask. She was startled by the gesture, but she knew what was needed of her. She adjusted, and rested her head in The Huntress's lap. She felt the clunky mask of hers twist and buckle a bit, but it was almost comfortable.
The Pig felt the hand leave her mask, and The Huntress started to hum. It was a simple lullaby, a short one at that. But it was honest. A kind gesture in a dead world. With her hands, she began to stroke The Pig's mask. Running her fingers through the synthetic hair and twirling it around.
Moments like these were confusing. The Huntress was an animal, a brainless husk that could barely take care of herself. A cold, distant, violent creature. So why did she do this? Why only for The Pig? She wouldn't complain, she loved these moments. It was comfortable, and comfort was a luxury in the fog. And if she closed her eyes and listened to The Huntress's ragged breaths, it almost felt like her own hair was being twirled. No, that's not it.
It almost felt like love.
She would be fine doing this for the rest of eternity. It might feel pointless at times. But she would bathe The Huntress after every match, she would listen to the screams of every survivor she was rewarded, and she would never again leave this shack if it meant moments like this would happen forever. That was love. A sick kind of love? Maybe. But it was the only kind of love she wanted.
The Huntress stopped humming, and her hand lay still. She bent down, and sniffed by The Pig's neck. The mood had changed, and something was up.
The Pig tries to raise her head, but The Huntress grabs the back of her mask and slams it down into her lap. Slowly, like a predator stalking her prey, she moves to stand up. Holding The Pig's face down into the couch. She tried to squirm, but The Huntress's grip was absurdly strong.
The Huntress swung a leg over her, and bent down to smell her neck again. It was a deeper pull, she was savoring the scent of The Pig. With one hand on The Pig's neck, and the other pressing her torso deeper into the couch, The Huntress started grinding against her ass. Her torn sarafan rubbing sensually past The Pig's jeans.
The Pig was scared. Terrified even, if such an emotion were possible for her at this point. But she didn't resist. She knew she couldn't fight back, and that struggling would only end up hurting her. And…all beneath the rationalizations, this is exactly what she wanted.
The Huntress clawed at The Pig's pants as she grinded, awkwardly sliding them down and out of the way. She was silent, but her breathing felt hungry. The underwear wasn't so lucky, as she tore at it until it ripped to shreds. The Pig winced, afraid and aroused in equal measure. She felt an uncomfortable trickle of pre-cum leak from her own dick as The Huntress pushed closer and closer to her.
Suddenly, The Huntress's hands shifted. The Pig was flipped over in a second, and she could see The Huntress looking down at her. The vacant eyes of her mask meeting her own eyeless visage.
This is love.
The Huntress pulled down her dress, her dick pressing hard against her underwear. She grinded her covered dick against The Pig's own. Even obscured by her underwear, her dick was bigger. The Pig reached her arms up, wrapped her arms around her, and pulled The Huntress closer. This is what she wanted. This is everything she wanted. Fuck, this was love! The Pig begged for more over and over in her mind. She wanted to be closer, she wanted to be a mama, she wante-
A dark pulse thrummed throughout the cabin. The Huntress was summoned.
The two stopped, and The Huntress stood up. She pulled her dress back up - unbothered by the smear of pre-cum on the front of them - and redid the buckles on her outfit. She looked down at The Pig for a second, then strode over to the front door. The door opened. A rush of cold entered the shack. A scrape of metal sounded as she picked up her axe. The sound of crunchy, icy footsteps got further and further away.
The Pig laid there, staring at the ceiling.
Even as the world grew a bit dimmer, a bit more shimmery, she laid still.
She sat up. She pulled the tattered scraps of her underwear off of her, and tossed them aside. The fog would claim them, and replace them on her person when she wasn't thinking about it. She pulled her pants up, and sat there for a good long while.
The Pig stands up, and as time warps and reality thins once more, she resumes her dutiful monitoring of every inch of The Huntress's home.
Her bed has three pillows, not four.
Look away, look back, and there's three pillows.
The memory of their encounter dimmed, becoming just as present or distant as every other memory she had made in the fog. But if it could happen once, it could happen again. She just needed to wait. She couldn't remember how many times she's done this cycle, but she'd do it all over again just to experience that one more time.
Is this love?
This is love.