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A blow to the head got him sent to the infirmary.
It wasn't a very hard hit, but it left him staggering about like a moron with no idea what was happening. He wasn't sure what happened, though it involved running headfirst into Mike, also sending him to the same place. Mike was oddly jovial about the whole thing, though that may have been the head trauma talking.
"Hey, pencildick."
Scott could hear Mike whispering to himself.
"Stop mutterin', it's pissin' me off."
"S-sorry," He shoved his face in the cot pillows, itching at his scalp wildly. Scott couldn't tell if he was having a seizure, or perhaps, just completely batshit. The noise of his mumbling was drowned out, so Scott turned his attention to swatting the flies that were darting past him. If he had a dollar for every mosquito bite he got in this dump, he wouldn't even need to win Total Drama.
A slam on the metal cots sent him sitting up straight.
Then came a rough scratching sound, and when he turned, Mike had been dragging his nails on the metallic supports. The screeching hurt Scott's eardrums, used to nothing louder than the screaming of his mother when he didn't do work.
"Fucking hell, I wanna be able to hear tomorrow!"
"'m sorry!" Mike reeled back slightly, arching with his fingers tangled into his hair like a net. His breath was heavy, and Scott almost wondered if he should question Mike's well-being, but to be quite frank, he could have cared less. Fists slammed onto the cot, whispers of 'no, please, no' came from the left side of the room.
And then it stopped. As suddenly as it had started.
For something like that to happen sporadically, and end just as sporadically, all of Scott's senses told him to leave. He should have left, had he known what was to befall him, but he stayed frozen in place. It was like paralysis, as though he couldn't leave, no matter how hard he tried to bust his limbs from their frozen penitentiary.
Mike's pinkie-thin figure rose, neck still hanging low. A bit of hair drooped over his left eye. Scott could have guessed it was one of Mike's characters, if you will, but he wasn't sure if it was that or simply Mike's quiff after rubbing his face against a pillow excessively.
"...It's good to be back,"
That was all he said, at first. Scott rose an eyebrow.
"You never left, pencildick."
"The hell did you just call me?"
His eye draws over to Scott, and he sets his sights on him, like a sniper taking aim. His pupils contracted, revealing deep, brown irises. His face darted from left to right, not far from that of a deer at a road.
"Oh, you were...with Mike." He grunted. "Stupid Mike. Is this the medical facility?"
"The fuck do ya think it is."
"Don't smack-talk me, pit stains."
"...Pah." Scott turned away, crossing his arms. 'Mike' hopped out of bed.
"I love fronting...Oh, there's my birthmark. Almost forgot. And my muscles, oh, they're all mine." He spoke almost wistfully, as though in some sort of weird dream. "My bones, and guts, and nerves, I can feel with Mike's body now. It's all mine."
"Stop talkin' unless y'got somethin' relevant to say, I'm tired!" He didn't really mean to snap, it just sort of happened. 'Mike's eyes narrowed in disgust.
"...I still need to teach the dumb ones respect, I see."
"Respect?" The word hung in the air. He repeated it once more, to himself. "Respect."
"Yes, you mouth-breathing imbecile, respect. If I am to leave you alone, you need to understand how to speak to me.
Skinny figure, first legs then head then the rest, rose itself from where it laid. With no supervision other than the cameras, he was free to do what he pleased at the time. Scott was in his very hands.
He knew himself for doing his work fast. The tubes for the IVs were perfect to tightly secure his victim, albeit a bit less malleable than cord or rope. A swift kick in Scott's back set him off guard, giving him just enough time to tie his hands tightly together. His other foot pressed the farm boy back down into place, before he even had time to process his position.
"...F-fuck." Scott stammered, looking nervously around. "Mike, what the fuck."
"I'm Mal."
"Oh, one of Mike's 'funny little characters' or whatever, right? Spare me the shit and lemme go."
"...How adorable." His mouth curled into a grin that sent chills down Scott's spine. "He hasn't...said a word about me, I see."
"Ugh." Scott grunted in his usual manner, pressing the knot deeply into his back. It didn't budge an inch, despite his efforts. He had no idea Mike was so good at tying knots, but Mal certainly prided himself in the ability. "Don't try nothin' funny, lemme go before I kick ya' in the jaw."
He found himself with a knife by his neck.
"Get up and take me to your lodgings, or I just might slice you open."
"Is that a knife?!" He slid himself up to the nearest wall, peepers wide in horror. "How did you get that in here?!"
"It's a secret."
It wasn't long before Mal had Scott shuffling away from the shoddy medical station and off to his cabin, with one hand on the ginger's shoulder and the other holding a blade close to his throat. Scott's bed was easy to find, it being a complete wreck with all of the covers pulled from their place. From under his pillow, Mal pulled a book. Hardcover, and labelled with Scott's name.
"Is this your diary?"
"'s a journal, why do you care?"
"Oooh...Alright, we're going back."
"Why did we even--"
"Listen. To. Me." Mal grabbed his prisoner by the neck, hauling him back the way they came. Scott was oddly compliant, perhaps out of fear. Mal predicted he would have much fun cracking the farm boy open. Upon arriving back where the two started, Mal placed his victim back on the same cot as before and began looking through the medical equipment.
"I'll hand ya over t' Chris." He was almost stammering, but his captor ignored him. He couldn't really go far if he tried, lack of use of his hands limited his sense of balance. "And Chef'll kick yer ass when he comes back."
"He won't come back, there's a challenge going on, re-mem-ber? That's why he's not here, and instead away, enjoying the misery of your peers."
Scott felt his heart sink in his chest. He wasn't going anywhere.
"Meanwhile, I'll be enjoying the misery of you..." Mal continued, sounding dreamy as ever, even moreso than when Mike would talk about his lover. He flexed his fingers, as though they were numbed with misuse. His joints cracked, a soft 'pop' to the ears. "I haven't felt so free in years...So free I could...Aha!"
At lightning speed, Mal's lanky figure swung around in a perfect circle. His fist was gummed up and stuck in place, a perfect fit with each finger where it belonged. Then rang out the sound of something breaking, as the fist collided with Scott's nose. It was almost surreal, seeing blood gush out of the face of the practically untouchable Scott. His face flopped onto the pillow, staining it scarlet. Mal's tooth-space grin was in his peripherals.
He clapped his hand over the wound, his breath quick and eyes wide once more.
"Fuck...Shit, fuck, I think ya' broke my nose, what the fuck..."
"Ooh...It's been..." Mal examined his hand, now coated heavily with a splatter of deep red. His smile widened further. "...so long, since I did that...I have human life on my hands, you redneck hick, it's yours." He rubbed his hands together, slathering the substance onto his formerly clean fingers, relishing in Scott's terror. Giving it a lick for extra effect, then Mal ran off to the medical supplies.
There were sharp things, and blunt things. Mal was no licensed doctor, he just wanted something to make this interesting. Looking behind his back, he only saw Scott pulling the knot over a bedpost. Still too tight to undo, clearly, and Scott wasn't the type to run around with his hands tied together. With his left hand, Mal held the journal open, snickering to himself.
"...'Maeve says I have anger issues, but I think she's just jealous since I get my ass beat less'..."
"Put that down."
"Don't wanna...Ooh, I could always read alllllll of these in front of every single contestant on the show, right?" He whistled to himself, 'In the Hall of the Mountain King', a tune he knew all too well. "'Went across the street and watched TV for the first time. The Al guy on Total Drama is weirdly hot.' I wonder what 'the Al guy' would think of this, hm?"
Scott seemed to hiss a little. His captor grabbed the box of medical supplies and sat down on Scott's lower legs. Skinny boy was surprisingly heavy. "'Mom says I was an accident. Not surprising, we could barely even handle one child.' Well then, accident boy, let's see you prove your worth."
"Put that down, dammit!"
"What? Didn't want me knowing about your horrid siblings? Your selachophobia? Your homosexual tendencies? Your very, very accidental existence?" His tongue flicked between the space of his teeth, his happiness flourishing in a scene of pure despair. "You certainly do lack a reason to live, correct? Except entertaining me, of course." His tongue slid over the shattered lump of Scott's nose, clearing away a pool of blood on his freckled face.
"...Fuck you, creep."
"Hold your tongue, I'm still reading. And it says you drink heavily when you can't sleep, correct? My my, you felon." He smiled with teeth, and those teeth were bright red with Scott's own blood. "You swallowed dirt and licked an anthill because your elder brother told you to, and you like when women boss you around. Such a pathetic assortment of traits."
"I am leaving--"
"I want to try something."
From the cheap, cardboard box, he pulled a little bottle. It was marked shoddily, in Chris' famous handwriting as 'Painkillers'. He placed it on Scott's chest, and then grabbed a syringe as well. The needle pushed through a hole in the cap, most likely created by the last person to use it, and the fluid went in an upward flow. It was sort of bluish, Scott tried to compare it to something he knew to make this experience more palatable.
"Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck, I hate doctors, I hate needles, get that thing away from me."
"Have you ever even seen a doctor, considering you were too poor to eat dinner half the time?"
"Pappy says not to trust doctors." He stammered, his brain unsure of whether that had actually happened at this moment in time. Did his father say that? Did his father even exist? If he didn't exist, he couldn't go through anything Mal had in his head, so perhaps he could just cease to exist right now.
"I'm no doctor, Scotty." The ginger boy hissed, hating to be called such a derogatory nickname. "You can trust that I'll leave you bleeding and sobbing. I guarantee it."
With his knowledge of the human body, Mal pried about Scott's arm, which was now hooked to the bedpost. Finding a vein was hard, after awhile Mal found himself taking a lucky albeit mildly educated shot at it. No matter how much slander he had endured from Scott that day, nothing would be cuter than his whines of pain. He was almost like a more low-budget Duncan.
That certainly was a good way to think about it. Duncan, but no mohawk, and no money. A low-rent, low-price little boy from juvie, who he loved to torment and loved to kiss. That made it even better. His delicious little boy.
Before he knew it, he pushed the plunger to its limit, liquid pumping into Scott's veins. He could see his victim pressing his fingers against his hands, searching for some form of sensation. It was a strong substance, and Mal had left him entirely, completely, pathetically numb. Though his face was deep red with blood, he looked more terrified than hurt. The only thing Mal relished in as much as pain was fear.
Lines were drawn in Scott's beautiful body, using only a scalpel. Each time he looked to the victim's face, watching him bite his lip, dribble sweat and heave up breaths. It was as though his entire body fell asleep, and he couldn't wake it up. What kind of drugs were they keeping around here?
"I taste your fear. Like a shark, right?"
"Like a..." Scott shut his eyes, as though bracing for the second of his death. It was only that gap-tooth smile, sliding over the fresh wounds, sniffing at the firm, calloused sheets of skin that he sliced through.
His neck seemed to create a wave as he swallowed a wad of saliva in a state of fear. With it, he choked back the need to cry.
"Cry for me, Scotty. You numb, dull, stupid, failed abortion, give me a show." His teeth clamped around Scott's ear, mildly red and hot on the top, digging into the lobe. It was so rough, he was concerned he might tear it off, but there was no need to be concerned for failures.
The position felt so intimate. Mal was never interested in sexual activity, but this he liked. Violence, terror, tormenting those who think they're better than they are. Delicious, Duncan's fingers fried on Scott's ears, Harold's thumbs battered and thrown in with Cody's eyes, or Noah's teeth, he had quite the bucket list of boys to torture. Maybe a few girls, too, but they're more resilient, he's found. And while resilience is interesting, he didn't quite have the fronting time.
The taste of something metallic spurted into his mouth. The lobe of Scott's ear gushed, and Mal sucked it as dry as he pleased, licking his lips. He wanted more, he wanted to drink until Scott was nothing more than a shriveled cadaver. But no.
That would give him away, if he did that. He was just getting used to things, just trying to test his power once again, and here he was. Here he was having so, so, so much fun. Like that one time, in juvie, and that one time in the alley, and...
He let out a wistful sigh, scratching lightly at Scott's clavicle. It took him a moment to even notice due to his off-shut nerves. He was so beautiful like this, an impaled prince on his death bed, how it felt for Mal to fall in love with his own creations.
It was starting to get everywhere, he realized. He might get in trouble.
"...You've made a mess. This isn't the farm, moron."
"Sorry."
"What did you just say?"
"...Sorry?"
"Say it again."
"Uh, sorry--"
"Say it like you mean it! Come on, say it so everyone can hear it."
"I said I'm sorry, alright, now...G-get off of me!"
Mal slapped a few cheap bandaids on his scalpel-to-skin art, as well as a grape lollipop. His fist struck down on Scott's head with great force, allowing him to fall to the grip of unconsciousness. He retired, hearing Mike beg to be free. He decided, it'd be best to let his victim sleep off the injury.
He decided he'd claim that one, too.