GUTGUN

Content warning: graphic violence!

The world was spinning, a kaleidoscope of reds and blacks. She coughed into her hand, the blood warming her cold skin. She'd get through this, she'd have to. She slowly pushed forward, one step at a time. She wouldn't die here, not like this. The woman gripped her stomach tightly, trying to keep everything inside— pain, burning and sharp, dominated her senses. They'd cut her open like a fish, rooted around inside her and did god knows what.
"Saviour." They called her. "You'll save us all." The lunatic tried to reassure her even as he took that twisted blade and split open her stomach with an agonizing, jagged stroke. It was torture. She didn't understand why this was happening, why her? What the hell was this for? She had been chained to a cold, stone table, which was surrounded by bodies— some she recognized— hung from hooks on the ceiling. Their intestines had been tied together in a pattern above the table they'd chained her to, forming some sort of occult sigil.
In the deliriousness of pain, she thought she saw things on the other side of the intestinal sigil, like it was a window to another world. Colors she'd never seen, alien landscapes, horrid creatures— she screamed, but her captor took this as a good sign, and cheered. Their cheers were cut short, however, as in her near-death state, the woman had found some sort of superhuman strength— and broke free. She choked them to death with the intestines hanging above her.
Now she stumbled through the facility she'd been held captive in, desperately searching for an exit. She had to escape, she had to escape, she had to escape.
<<Let go. Release-drop.>> A voice hummed through her skull, carrying a tone that was both condescending and caring at the same time. <<You are my Viscera, my chosen-gut— my champion. What you hold inside should be freed.>>
The woman beat her head with her free hand. This wasn't real, this wasn't real— it couldn't be real.
Panicked voices sounded from the halls behind her. "She's gone! She's gone! Search the halls, she can't be far!"
The voice hummed again, vibrating between her ears. <<Take the gift-relic, Viscera.>> It felt like a worm moving through her skull, burrowing deeper with each word. <<Drop— fight-digest, live.>>
She groaned, and stumbled— leaning against a wall for support. In her weakness, her arm fell to her side— letting her intestines begin to spill out of the fresh wound. The pain subsided, it was distant— numb, as if it were happening somewhere far, far away. Her vision swam, and she desperately grabbed her falling entrails to try and push them back into its rightful home. But something stopped her. Something felt wrong— more wrong than it already was to hold one's own innards.
The end of her intestine had been transformed into the grip and barrel of a gun.