Uniformed Men in Distress
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Marine Crate - 01
🕑 Added 2025-08-25 01:52:01 +0000 UTCCorporal Damian Harrow, 25, Marine Corps infantry
The ambush came fast. Smoke, shouting, the pop of gunfire echoing through the abandoned structure deep in the forest. Corporal Damian Harrow had burned through his last mag, rifle hot and empty. Dust stung his eyes, sweat burned the cuts on his face. It didn’t matter how he got to this point or how he became separated from his unit. What mattered was that he was here now.
It was chaos when the order came.
“DROP IT!”
It wasn’t barked from teammates or through comms. It came from black-masked figures stepping out of the haze, rifles steady, flanking him.
Damian raised his weapon one last time, knowing it wouldn’t do him any good. Four barrels stared back at him, aimed square at his chest and head. He knew the math. He knew the training. Survival meant surrender. His rifle clattered to the ground. He raised his hands, chest heaving, helmet heavy with sweat.
(Goddamn it! Look defiant. Don’t let them think you’ve given up completely.)
The butt of a rifle cracked into his back.
“ON YOUR FUCKING KNEES!”
He hit the dirt hard, boots scraping. He kept his arms up, signaling that he was complying, surrendering.
“Okay… okay…!” he said, before another shove knocked him forward.
“Shut up!”
Multiple sets of hands were all over him, patting him down. Damian clenched his jaw as his gear was stripped piece by piece—helmet, radio, plate carrier. Even his jacket was ripped away until he felt like nothing more than a body in uniform. Gunfire still cracked in the distance. Both sides were still fighting, but Damian had already been taken prisoner—and he knew they’d need to move him fast.
Like they’d rehearsed this before, one captor wrenched both arms behind his back. The ripping sound and acrid smell of duct tape filled his ears and nose as they bound his wrists together, loud and hasty. Another captor tied a rag over his eyes, plunging him into darkness. Within seconds, he was blind and trapped, unable to fight. Two men grabbed his arms and dragged him away. Damian tried to keep up, but blindfolded, he stumbled more than he walked.
After shouting and running for what felt like minutes, they heaved him into a vehicle. He landed face down on the metal floor. Tape wrapped his ankles and boots, binding them tight. He was helpless. The vehicle roared to life.
It felt like forever, but it was maybe twenty minutes. Every time he moved or made a sound, he got a kick or a slap to the head. He forced himself to lie still.
When the vehicle finally stopped, everyone but Damian disembarked. He was dragged across the floor, pulled like luggage to the edge. He braced to land on his feet, but instead a captor slung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He felt the breeze shift as gravel crunched to concrete—taken inside a building.
After another minute, they dumped him to the floor.
“Search him!”
Hands flipped him over, patting him down. Rough, invasive, flipping him back and forth like a piece of meat. They took everything—pocket knife, pen, notepad, wallet, phone, even a gum wrapper. Then fingers slipped under his sweat-soaked undershirt, pulling out his dog tags.
The blindfold ripped away. His eyes burned as they adjusted to the bright light. A masked man in grey tactical gear knelt beside him, dog tags in hand.
“Well, well, who do we have here? Damian Harrow. This must be a harrowing experience for you, Damian. Pun absolutely intended.”
The man flipped him roughly back onto his stomach.
Damian’s blurry vision caught glimpses of an abandoned warehouse—scattered boxes, some supplies, only four men in sight.
To his surprise, the tape binding his ankles was cut.
“Don’t fucking try anything, bud!” one snapped, tossing a coil of rope onto him. His wrists were cut free too, but before he could find relief, a man straddled his back and yanked his arms into a cross. Rough hemp rope wrapped tight around his wrists, cinched systematically. Damian tested the knots.
“Fuck!” he hissed as the ropes bit deeper than the tape. A slap cracked across his head.
“Shut the hell up.”
The hemp had no give. He couldn’t move, couldn’t even rotate his wrists. Shackled tighter than steel. Panic crept in. He was always the one in control. Now he wasn’t.
They weren’t finished. Another rope looped around his upper body—tight across his chest, under his arms, pinning his elbows in place. Each tug locked him tighter. Then they cinched it, weaving the rope between his arms and torso. Damian squirmed instinctively, but with the man’s weight pressing him down, he was helpless.
“Stop fucking resisting!” the captor barked. Damian froze. Futile.
Flipped to his side, rope wrapped over his shoulders and chest, forming a cage that stole any upper-body freedom.
“Is this really necessary? You don’t have.....”
Another slap. Harder.
“Who the fuck told you to speak? I said shut the hell up.”
A kick forced his legs together. Rope lashed his ankles, then his knees, folding his legs tight until his heels pressed his butt. More rope around thighs, shins, then cinched mercilessly.
(Fuck me.) His body was bent like origami, every joint locked.
Then they weren’t finished. More rope lashed his boots, then linked to the harness across his chest and shoulders. A savage yank dragged his feet back, arching him cruelly. Damian grunted involuntarily.
“Oh yeah, that’s it. I like my hogties tight! Can’t take chances with a tough Marine like you,” the man mocked. He hauled the rope tighter, stretching Damian’s feet until his toes pointed skyward. No slack.
“There you go! Now that’s a fucking hogtie!”
He knelt beside Damian, snapped selfies of the bound Marine, then slapped his chest and torso a few times like a drum.
“Not so fucking tough anymore, eh buddy?”
He wasn’t wrong. Damian was utterly helpless. He couldn’t even shield his chest from the blows. Couldn’t roll. Couldn’t move. He just stared back at the grinning masks.
The hogtier left the room, muffled conversation trailing behind. The two others stayed, leaning against the wall, scrolling their phones, occasionally glancing at him. Even through masks, Damian could feel their smirks.
Minutes dragged. Finally he pleaded:
“Please, this is too tight. Please, you don’t have to do this. I’ll comply!”
“Stay quiet, Damian. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be,” one said without looking up.
Time blurred. The hogtie was merciless. Every movement made another knot tighten. Futile. His shoulders burned, thighs cramping, body screaming. Anger boiled how had he let this happen? Let himself be captured and hogtied like this.
The hogtier returned.
“Okay, crate’s coming in about two hours. Make yourselves useful until then, and keep it down. You know what to do.”
The warehouse quieted. Damian lay bound, breaths ragged, sweat stinging his eyes. Two hours. Crate? What the hell did that mean? They couldn’t leave him like this for two hours. Could they?
Half an hour crawled by. The two guards glanced at each other, then stood, looming over him.
“Still hanging in there, bud? You know you made a mistake coming here.”
Damian stayed silent. They eventually sat back down. Minutes passed in whispers until suddenly they got up again, this time sitting right beside him, close like old friends.
