"This was hardly a plan befitting a SOLDIER now, was it?" the Don mocked. "You should have gone all the way and used an actual silver platter."
He slid the knife between Cloud's two rear drumsticks and slit the string binding them together. The chicken, sensing this taste of freedom, began to wriggle anew. The Don allowed it's struggles to continue for a while, noting how it's movements took it ever so slowly, ever so desperately in the direction that the morph materia had fallen, before taking a drumstick in each hand and spreading them wide until the thigh bones and cartilage creaked and cracked, exposing the entrance to Cloud's body cavity.
"I suppose you're here to rescue that Tifa girl," the Don asked, as he bustled about the kitchen behind Cloud. "What a shame that no-one is here to rescue you."
His pelvis was broken, his legs immovable from their spread, vulnerable position, but his plucked winged still scraped weakly against the tabletop, pulling his body, millimetre by millimetre, towards the distant morph materia. He knew he didn't have a chance of reaching it, but he had to try; he had to do something. Otherwise Tifa would be at the whims of this horrible man. And he would be...
A heavy hand larger than himself held him firmly to the counter and another, balled into a fist, forced it's way between his drumsticks.
"This may leave you a little tender," Don Corneo warned, as he pushed a handful of stuffing deep inside Cloud's chest cavity. The chicken contorted in agony around his fist. "And sweet. And succulent."
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