KidPinoy Aftermath #7

 The lens settles, focused on a figure crumpled on the floor. It is Bien, KidPinoy, or what remains of him. His body, once taut with boundless energy, is slack, glistening with sweat and something else – a milky sheen coating his abdomen and thighs, pooling slightly in the hollow of his navel. His chest rises and falls in jagged, desperate gasps, the sound a wet rasping. His face, usually a mask of defiance, is contorted, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, exhibiting dried spittle at the corners, fresh drool tracking down his chin.

Footsteps echo on a hard floor, coming closer. Four sets. One pair stops near Bien’s head, another by his feet, two flanking his torso.

A boot prods his side. Bien flinches violently, a choked sound escaping him.

The camera tilts up slightly, catching the faces leaning over him. Rapis, framed in a close-up, his face a study in reptilian satisfaction. Next to him, Mastermind, a predatory smile playing on his lips, his hand still lingering near Bien's bicep. Cultist, his eyes gleaming with fanatical zeal, stands near the lower part of Bien's body. Beast, a hulking shadow, remains mostly out of frame, his presence confirmed by the rhythmic, brutal movements that continued just moments before, and the visible aftermath on Bien’s body.

"Look at him," Rapis's voice is a low purr, pitched for maximum effect, clearly intended for a wider audience than just those present. The camera pans slightly, showing a single mounted video camera, its red light glowing steadily, positioned to capture the scene. "KidPinoy. The hero of the people. The invincible force."

Mastermind chuckles, a dry, brittle sound. "Invincible? A quaint notion. Power, like everything else, has a source. Disrupt the flow, and the power withers." His eyes flick down Bien's body, resting on the source of his current torment. "And what a fascinating source it is. Truly... unique."

Cultist leans in, his face entering the frame. His fingers, encased in dark gloves, reach towards Bien’s abdomen. He traces the path of the dried and fresh semen. "The sacred ichor," he whispers, his voice a sibilant hiss. "Wasted on the masses as cheap power. Now, it serves its true purpose. Fuel for the new age." His movements are deliberate, almost ritualistic.

Beast shifts, a grunt audible. His heavy breathing creates a visible condensation cloud in the cool air of the room. The camera momentarily catches a flash of muscular leg near Bien's feet before focusing again on his face.

Rapis gestures towards the main camera with a flourish. "The world watches," he announces, his voice gaining volume and a theatrical edge. "They believed in this... boy. This 'hero'. Now, they will see the truth. See what he is. See who holds his reins."

He steps back slightly. "Get him up. The world deserves a closer look."

Two figures, presumably Cultist and Beast, move towards Bien. Cultist’s hands grip Bien’s arms, Beast’s seize his legs. They haul his limp, struggling form upwards. Bien groans, a sound of pure agony and exhaustion. His head lolls back, neck strained.

The camera follows as they drag him across the floor, leaving a faint trail of moisture. They bring him towards a raised platform, small and stark, directly in line with the main camera. On the platform, a single spot of light shines down, creating a harsh, unflattering glare.

They force him onto the platform, positioning him on his knees. His body sags, threatening to collapse. Cultist keeps a firm grip on one arm, steadying him. Beast moves behind him, a silent, imposing presence.

Bien’s chest continues its ragged heaves. His eyes are still mostly closed, slits of white visible beneath heavy lids. His arms hang limply at his sides, occasionally twitching.

Rapis steps onto the platform, standing to Bien's side. He reaches out, his hand closing around a fistful of Bien’s dark, damp hair, pulling his head back roughly. Bien’s jaw opens in a silent cry. His face is now fully illuminated by the spotlight, every bead of sweat, every tear track, every tremor visible.

Rapis leans in close again, his face inches from Bien's. "Look at the camera, boy," he commands, his voice sharp. "Show them the face of their fallen idol."

Bien’s eyes flutter open, unfocused at first, then slowly, painfully, locating the red glow of the camera lens. His gaze is vacant, filled with a profound, almost animalistic weariness.

Rapis tightens his grip on Bien’s hair. He raises his other hand. The camera zooms slightly, framing Rapis’s face and Bien's pulled-back head.

Then, the first slap. A sharp, report-like sound fills the sterile air. Bien’s head snaps to the side. A red welt blooms on his cheek. His body shudders. He makes a sound, halfway between a sob and a gasp.

"Answer," Rapis says, his voice cold. "Who are you?"

Bien’s lips part. He licks them, a slow, laborious movement. His voice is barely a whisper, amplified perhaps by hidden microphones. "...Bien..."

Another slap, harder this time. The sound is louder. Bien’s head snaps the other way. His cheek is redder now. A thin trickle of blood appears at the corner of his mouth.

"Not your name!" Rapis snarls. "Your identity. Your truth. Tell them what we've revealed."

Bien’s eyes squeeze shut for a fraction of a second. He seems to gather the last vestiges of his strength, not for defiance, but just to form the words. "...Filipino... semen fountain... broken hero..."

A satisfied smirk plays on Rapis’s lips. "Good. Keep going. Tell them what you are now."

Bien’s body tremors. Below the frame, there's a slight shift, perhaps from Beast or Cultist adjusting their grip. The camera angle shifts slightly, showing more of Bien’s kneeling form. His torso is still smeared, his thighs coated. His hands are still limp, resting on the platform.

And from between his thighs, visible just below the edge of his briefs which Rapi's have pulled and cut away, his cock, still engorged, gives a small, involuntary twitch. A fresh wave of fluid, thick and white, pulses weakly from the tip, running down the shaft and onto the platform between his knees.

The camera holds steady, capturing the visual. There is no cut, no censor. Just the objective view.

Rapis watches the discharge, his smirk widening. He glances at the camera, then back at Bien. "Look," he says, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Still giving. Still flowing. Even broken, the fountain runs." He reaches out, his index finger dipping into the fresh pool of semen on the platform near Bien's knee.

Mastermind steps closer, his face appearing in a tight shot beside Rapis’s. His eyes, sharp and intelligent, study the fluid on Rapis’s fingertip. Cultist moves into the frame as well, standing just behind Bien's kneeling form, his hands now resting lightly on Bien's shoulders.

Rapis brings his finger to his lips. He tastes it. His expression is unreadable for a moment, then transforms into one of exaggerated consideration. "Hmm," he mumbles, loud enough for the microphone to pick up. "Slightly... depleted, perhaps? Less of the divine spark? Or is it simply fatigue?" He looks into the camera, his eyes challenging the unseen audience. "This is your hero's essence. This is the power you relied on."

Mastermind leans forward, his gaze fixed on Bien’s face, his mouth close to Bien’s ear. While not fully audible to the main mic, a low murmur can be heard. "Such potential," Mastermind whispers. "Wasted on saving cats from trees and stopping petty thugs. Imagine what this source could power if directed properly. If harnessed."

Bien’s eyes are wide now, fixed on the camera, but they seem to see nothing. The trauma of the past hours, compounded by the public humiliation, has clearly taken its toll. His chest shudders again. Another weak pulse of semen escapes him, adding to the growing puddle between his legs.

Cultist’s grip on Bien’s shoulders tightens. "Feel it draining away, hero?" he hisses directly into Bien's other ear. "Feel the power leaving you, drop by drop? Each gasp, each tremor, a testament to your foolish adherence to your 'morals'. This is the price of 'goodness'."

Rapis raises his hand again. Another slap. Bien cries out, a hoarse, broken sound. His head snaps back. His nose begins to bleed, a thin stream mixing with the sweat and tears on his lip.

"Who betrayed you?" Rapis demands. "Tell them the names."

Bien’s mouth works. His breath hitches. "...Mastermind... Rapis... Cultist... Beast..." The names are forced out, painful syllables torn from his throat. "...You... all..."

Rapis smiles, a cruel, triumphant baring of teeth. "And what did we do, little hero?"

Bien’s voice is barely audible, raw and scraped. "...Broke me... violated KidPinoy..."

Mastermind steps forward, his hand reaching out. He runs the back of his fingers along the curve of Bien’s cheekbone. The camera zooms in slightly, capturing the stark contrast between Mastermind's refined hand and Bien’s bruised, smeared face. Mastermind's gaze lingers on the blood from Bien’s nose, then tracks down towards his neck, his shoulders, his chest, glistening with the continuous discharge.

"Such a magnificent specimen," Mastermind murmurs, not to Bien, but to the camera. "Eighteen years of peak physical condition. Built for endurance, for strength. And powered by... this." He gestures down Bien’s body with a flick of his wrist. "Think of the irony. The source of limitless energy... also the source of infinite vulnerability." He leans in again, closer to Bien’s ear. "We didn't just break you, Bien. We revealed you. To yourself, and to the world."

Cultist’s hand leaves Bien’s shoulder and moves lower, stroking the side of Bien’s torso, tracing the line of his ribs, then moving down towards the wet patch on his thigh. He rubs his glove against Bien’s skin, smearing the fluid further. His face is ecstatic, devotional.

Beast shifts behind Bien, the camera registering the massive outline of his form. A low growl emanates from him.

Rapis steps back slightly, allowing the camera a view of the entire tableau: Bien, kneeling, broken, smeared, his head pulled back by Rapis’s hand, his face a mask of suffering; Mastermind observing with detached intellectual cruelty; Cultist touching Bien with disturbing reverence; Beast a looming threat behind him; the growing puddle on the platform, constantly renewed by the spasms of his body.

"He is a testament," Rapis declares, his voice ringing out. "A testament to the fragility of your 'heroes'. A testament to the power of true understanding – understanding the source. Understanding the weakness. We didn't need to match his strength. We needed to understand its origin."

Another spasm wracks Bien’s body. His back arches slightly. A more substantial spurt of semen shoots forth, splashing onto the platform, onto his own hand which has fallen near his leg, onto the edge of his briefs clinging to his groin.

The camera doesn't flinch. It stays focused, capturing the raw, undeniable reality of the scene. The sound of the discharge is clearly audible, wet and unmistakable.

Cultist lets out a quiet moan of what appears to be perverse satisfaction. Mastermind observes with scientific interest. Rapis watches with pure, unadulterated triumph.

Rapis leans down again, his face close to Bien’s. His voice drops, becoming intimate and venomous. "Tell them one more thing, little hero. Tell them what you are now. For us. Say it."

Bien’s breath rattles in his chest. His eyes are half-closed again. The blood on his lip has dried to a crust. Fresh tears track through the mess on his cheeks. He swallows hard.

His damaged voice, barely a whisper, floats into the microphone. "...Yours..."

Cultist gives a sharp, triumphant laugh behind him. Mastermind nods slowly, a look of profound satisfaction on his face. Rapis’s grip on Bien’s hair tightens, pulling his head back further, exposing the full, pathetic extent of his brokenness to the camera.

"Exactly," Rapis murmurs. "Hours. It only took hours. Hours of relentless extraction. Hours of... rediscovering your fundamental nature. And here you are. Completely. Utterly. Ours."

He stands up, releasing Bien’s hair. Bien's head lolls forward, his face just inches from the wet, smeared platform. His body continues to tremble. His eyes are closed again. The rhythmic, spasming discharge continues, slower now, weaker perhaps, but relentless, a constant, visible drain.

The camera, positioned perfectly, continues to record. It shows Bien, kneeling in the spotlight, a heap of ruined muscle and bone, slick with his own spent vital fluid. It shows the villains looming over him, silhouetted against the light, their faces filled with gloating victory. It shows the messy platform, the puddles of white, the silent, ongoing degradation.

The only sounds are the ragged breathing, the occasional wet slap of semen onto the floor, and the low, satisfied murmurs of the villains. The camera remains fixed on this scene, transmitting the image of KidPinoy’s final, humiliating defeat to a watching world. It shows the truth, as dictated by his captors: the broken fountain, the hero reduced to his source, utterly depleted, utterly at their mercy. The camera sees all, judges nothing, simply records the stark, brutal reality laid bare before its lens. It captures the visible proof of invincibility shattered, reduced to a leaking vessel. And it continues to roll, capturing every tremor, every gasp, every drop, for all time.