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All around is nothing but devastation. All around him is nothing but devastation, City (?) pulverised down to the foundations with only a mushy mix of concrete dust and blood to show for what used to be here, live here. And it is the same the world over, for each city.
It had been days since Kamikaze has been in his right mind, and when he stares from his devastated surroundings to his bloody hands, shredded skin bare, his muscles and bones exposed to the choking air full of dust and death, he passes out, collapsing sideways, only to be caught by someone who's been watching. Something.
“Fainting is a weakness of his, by the looks of it.” a series of eyes study the unconscious man held in a series of limbs.
“You'd faint too if you woke up like that.” Another thing approaches the first over the torn up soil, and jabs a needle into the samurai's shoulder, where he still has skin.
“...True.”
The voices are not kind, or human. They're discussing a product and its potential defects. A weapon destined for the highest bidder from the mercenary companies that infect the spaces between the stars.
Despite the damage done to himself, Kamikaze heals quickly these days, horribly quickly, blood pouring back through pores reconstituted from skin stretching from fleshy island to fleshly island, becoming once again an envelope to hold in guts and gore. These days he could be hurt, and hurt badly, but he can't be killed. His monster form can not be blown up, and his human facade is just that, a facade. That is the beauty of his particular mutation - never ending devastation. The needle is a tremendous sedative, not medicine or morphine.
The rapidly healing entity is placed on the cold metal floor of a shuttle ship, a shuttle awaiting its mothership to come round in orbit. “For a monster he's very pretty.” says the first thing, a tentacle touching parts of Kamikaze that have done reforming.
“It happens occasionally. Nice mask to fool the normies.” says the second thing, a much smaller beast.
“We’re allowed to…break him in, right? He's not being sold as fresh produce?”
“I'll ask but I don't think he is. He's one of the turned ones. BS gave him the goods. The bosses probably will try and pass him as untouched, but he isn't.”
“Oh yes. How could I forget? I need to watch that tape.” Wherever blood retreats, tentacles take its place, till the hero's skin can't be seen through the black mass of jiggling goo covering him.
The second monster gets off the comms device.
“They said he needs to be sedated because they don't know yet how to trigger him. But otherwise we can have some fun with him. If we die, we die.”
“Man, he's very pretty, and a haughty little shit I heard.”
“You're right about that. But a dangerous little shit, don't forget.”
Kamikaze wakes once his wounds have healed, waking to find an array of monstrous beings staring down at him, and a tentacle pushing past his lips and down his throat. Without preamble they stick him with more sedatives then begin their games, taking turns to make him suffer as best they can, holding him down and breaking his freshly healed skin heedlessly or on purpose, biting and scratching, using his body to offload hate onto, the heavy sedation making him feel like his cotton wool palace is on slow, dreamy fire. Blood spreads across the floor in a wide pool while a man chokes, unable to die.