Chapter Text
Phil generally considers himself pretty good at stealing. He's made his living being a pickpocket many times before, stealing being just one of those things that one gets good at after living for several centuries with no consistent source of income and a desire to travel every world.
Even the most skilled thief, though, is not immune to a metal bar slammed right on the back of his head.
The world is still spinning around him, making Phil feel too nauseous to push himself up. The eggs he had been planning to steal from this chicken coop to split between him and Techno for breakfast were all cracked underneath him, the wet yolks soaking into his dirt stained shirt. He's lying face down in the dirt, the back of his head throbbing painfully where that damned farmer had caught him with a crowbar, just as he was preparing to sneak away, before the sun even brushed the horizon.
"Fuck," Phil curses for what feels like the hundredth time since he's hit the ground. He places a hand underneath him starting to push himself upward despite how it sends his head swirling. He had heard the farmer stomp away, shouting something Phil had been too discombobulated to comprehend. Phil could hope that the farmer would simply leave him alone to recover and then shamefully retreat, but in his heart he knows he's never that lucky. So, as he struggles to sit up and wipe egg yolk from his hand against the dirt, his other hand drifts to the dagger at his side.
Once he stands, he'll be able to head toward the broken section of the barbed wire fence along the edge of the property, then hide under the cover of the forest until he can get back to Techno and their camp. He can't fly away right now, his head is too dizzy for that, so on foot will have to make do for now. And if anyone tries to stop him, that's what the dagger's for.
Phil takes a deep breath, and prepares to stand. He's alright. He can push through this, he's had worse head injuries before and he knows how to grit his teeth and bear it, just for a little while.
But over the ringing in his ears and the fuzziness of his thoughts, he fails to recognize the approaching footsteps at first. When he does, they're already far too close, and his head jerks up with a snarl curling his lips. His dagger is pulled from its sheath, but before he can lunge forward, a heavily gloved fist strikes out and punches hard across his face. It sends first Phil's head snapping to the right before the rest of his body follows suit, crumpling to the ground once more as the farmer moves to stand over him, planting a muddy boot on the center of his chest.
"Goddamn thieves," the farmer snarls, reaching down and ripping the dagger away from Phil before he manages to get a tighter grip around the hilt. Phil struggles underneath the pressure on his chest, body twitching with limited effort as he urges panic and adrenaline to clear the painful blurriness of his mind and to push aside the pulsing pain at the back of his head.
His frustrated, fearful squirming reveals too much, though, and he freezes as the boot presses down harder on the center of his chest, enough that it feels like the very life is being squeezed out of his lungs. The farmer leans down as he applies the pressure, unhooking the clasp around Phil's neck that holds his cloak together, and throws the fabric aside.
The farmer spits, and it hits Phil's feathers as the jet-black wings are exposed to the dawn. "And a fucking hybrid, too," he sneers. "'course you are."
Phil shudders as foreign fingers curl in his feathers, shoulders twitching as he fights harder to remove the weight from his chest. "Ffh- fuck off" He scrabbles with his hands to push against the heavy boot, shoving at the sides of it, surging up with an attempt to unbalance the farmer, but it's to no avail. The only relief comes when the man chooses to remove his boot from Phil's chest, a brief moment of respite before the heavy toe of the boot slams into Phil's side, leaving him wheezing painfully, struggling for air before the boot steps down again, this time on his quivering, half-outstretched wing.
"S'ry, mate," he rasps, forcing his eyes to stay cracked open. "Didn't mean to cause such a ruckus, if you—nhh." He sucks in a sharp breath as the pressure on his wing digs deeper, twisting the feathers underneath the man's heel. "If you jus' remove your fuckin' boot I'll be sure to get out of your hair, alright?" He tries to speak calmly, apologetically, even though he wants nothing more than to drive a blade directly through this man's ankle. "This doesn't have t'- to be that big a deal."
The farmer snorts derisively. "I already sent my son for the guards in town," he said. Phil could feel the color draining from his cheeks at those words, beginning to struggle all the more before the pressure on the hollow bones of his wings slows him again. "I only sent 'im with the information of a thief, though. I'm sure they'll be mighty pleased to see whatcha' actually are."
Phil swallows tightly, knowing fear is flashing clear in his eyes. "You- you really don't have to do that," he tries one last time, attempting to give out a small smile, though it wavers with pain and worry. "You don't have to go to-- to any kind of trouble, I'm sure it'll be quite the hassle--"
His words are cut off as the farmer curls his gloved hand in Phil's collar, yanking his torso upward while one wing stays pinned to the ground. The muscles of his pinned wing scream as they're pulled at an awkward angle. Phil bites his tongue to hold back a grunt of surprise, eyes squeezing shut for a moment as the sudden, jerking movement sends a fresh wave of dizzying pain crashing down over his head.
The farmer laughs, something low and dangerous in his voice. "Not a chance in hell," he snarls, finally taking his boot off Phil's wing, only to begin to drag him across the ground. Phil's hands push weakly at his grip, but between his injured head and aching body, he can't manage to do much but ease off enough pressure to keep from feeling choked by his own tunic.
They're heading toward the same fence that Phil had entered through, but not the broken section that Phil had easily bypassed. Instead, he's being dragged straight toward a wholly intact section, where four strands of barbed wire stretch straight across two fence posts, separated by only a few inches each.
"Fuck," he gasps, fear flooding his voice before he can help it. "Fuck, get the fuck- get off, you fucking shithead."
He's dropped back to the ground unceremoniously, wings flapping helplessly around him as he tries to regain balance. Before Phil can orientate himself he's kicked once, "Nngh—", twice, "Gghh—", in the stomach, leaving him breathless in a horrible, gut wrenching way. He gags on the lack of air, struggling to take a single breath as the mud underneath him squelches against his chin. Then he's hauled up from the back, arms twisted and pinned behind him, holding firm even as his wings flap wildly in response, forcing his knees to the ground. "Piece of sh- shit, fuck off!" Phil roars, praying it's loud enough for Techno to somehow hear him, knowing that it's not.
He hardly listens to the disgusting words being hurled at him by the farmer, too focused on trying to wrench out of the tight grip the man has on his wrists. His hollow bones are subject to pressure easier than most, though, so it doesn't take much leverage before Phil feels like his wrists will snap if they're held any tighter, forcing him to cease his wild struggling.
A heavy hand gripping the back of his neck pushes him forward even as he shouts and swears, but his fevered words die in his aching throat as the first strands of his hair begins to catch on the barbed bits of the wire, tugging and tearing at his hair as his head is pushed in between the sharp wires. His tunic tears on the spikes, pressing the barbs into his shoulders and chest. He shouts, but his furious cries are interjected with gasps of pain as his flesh is cut and torn. His wings begin to catch in the wires, the feathers being ripped from him as barbs dig into parts of his upper wing.
"The town guards will come for you soon," the man sneers from behind him, sounding far too pleased with himself. Phil tries to twist his head to curse him out, but trying to move only pushes the barbs deeper into his skin, causing his voice to break off in a stifled whimper. "Just got t' make sure you don't try to escape in the meantime."
"This is fucking insane!" Phil retorts. As he breathes in to shout again, the expanding of his lungs causes his skin to press further against the wires. "What- hnnh- what the fuck gives you the right to do this?"
His breath hitches in his throat as he feels a length of barbed wire catch against his wrists, the thick gloves of the farmer allowing him to easily wrap the sharp metal around his wrists to keep them still. The ends of the wire are looped to the fence, and Phil is trapped on almost every side by sharp wire, digging into his skin, tearing at his flesh. "This is torture!" he roars, because it is, every movement is agony, he can feel blood dripping down his chest and coating his fingers. "What gives you the fuh- the fucking right to do this?"
"Just got t' keep you still until the guards come," the farmer repeats, his sharp voice grating on Phil's ears. "Whether they kill ya' or take you back to town to be stoned, it ain't my problem anymore, I've done my part." Phil would shudder if he could, for he can almost feel the satisfied smile the man is beaming from behind him. "And I reckon I'll be paid quite handsomely for it, too."
Tears sting in his eyes, stinging his scratched up cheeks with the salt water "Fucking bastard!" Phil shouts again, but all he gets in response is the sound of retreating footsteps, leaving him dreadfully alone.
His body screams for respite, for him to shut his eyes and give his aching chest a rest, but he fears if he sags then the barbs would only tear deeper into him, push against the torn skin and muscle underneath. So he forces himself to stay frozen, locked tight with fear and terror. He cannot stop his wings from trembling, only just able to pull them back, uncomfortably so, to keep them from brushing up against the wires.
Phil looks to the forest, eyes continuously darting toward the road in the west. He prays, a dry mouth moving soundless lips, that Techno arrives first, cuts him free from this so they might run away as fast as they can.
He prays that the sound of horse hooves approaching are only in his imagination.
He prays, and he prays.