A/N: Originally, I wasn't going to write this because I didn't know how well it would be received, but now I figure I'll give it a shot. :/ It is a Mac/OC story, but if you're looking for a Mary Sue, you are absolutely in the wrong place. I appreciate reviews and constructive criticism, and thank you in advance for reading.

Warnings: This story will contain copious amounts of violence, language, and sex, all to the extreme. If you've seen the movie and enjoyed it, you'll have no problem then, lol.

Timeline: Takes place before the movie.

STAGE ONE - COMPLIANCE
A change in behavior consistent with a communication source's direct requests.

Road trip.

It hadn't been her idea, but then again, nothing ever was her idea. Because if she had ideas, he'd punch the shit out of her until he was certain he'd knocked the ideas out of her, too. So she went along because she had no choice. No, that wasn't true—she had a choice, and her choice was to live. God only knows what might have happened if she'd refused a road trip that would take them from Wyoming through the badlands near Red Canyon, Utah, and on to Las Vegas, Nevada.

Las Vegas. What a fucking joke. She knew what would happen once they got there; he'd lose his ass at the poker tables, come back to the room and beat the hell out of her like it was her fault, and then he'd ask her to loan him some money, which she would do just to get him out of her face for a little while longer. Once he'd spent all of their money and painted her in blue, black, and green, he'd have his father wire him the gas money to get them back home. Like father, like son. She was pretty sure his dad beat his mom, too.

Being in a car alone with Johnny really wasn't so bad. He preferred listening to Shooter Jennings and Willie Nelson at maximum volume to squash any conversation he thought she might have been interested in having. Yeah, right. She had nothing to say to him. She'd have rather listened to shitty music than hear Johnny's voice. Gazing out the window, watching all the nothingness go by, she imagined a better life. One without Johnny. A life where she could wake up every morning and not worry about being hammered in the face for not having done the dishes the night before, where she could look at the man she lived with and not want to slit his throat.

But that was asking too much, she knew that. Her Catholic friend had told her to pray to God for the answers and the strength to make the right decision. Except that wouldn't work, she told her friend. God is dead and he doesn't care. Besides, she wasn't really sure which answer she was looking for, which outcome. Did she want the strength to leave him or the strength to do something about him? If she got away, he would just find another woman to treat the same way, and she would rather stick it out with Johnny for the rest of her life—however long he decided he wanted to let her live—than allow him to sink his claws into some other female, beat her, make her feel like she was less than him, make her believe it. But if she took matters into her own hands, maybe she could stop it from every angle: stop him from hurting and ruling her, stop him from doing it to someone else. The only way to do that, though …

"Gotta stop," his voice broke into her morbid thoughts. She glanced sideways at him, propping her foot up on the dashboard. "I need to take a leak."

He pulled the car over, the tires on the right side kicking up dirt and dust as they came to a hard stop. She said nothing as he got out, slamming the door harder than was necessary, and he jogged around the car to piss into the desert. She glanced at the keys dangling from the ignition, eyes falling to the pedals in the floorboard, then the gear shift. It would be so easy to climb into the driver's seat and speed off, coating Johnny in Red Canyon filth, laughing the whole way. Laughing until he caught up with her and his stolen vehicle and made her pay for it, probably with her life. So she thought of another scenario—what if she climbed into the driver's seat and sped away, only this time turning the wheel hard right and mowing Johnny down. He'd bust the grill and break the windshield, and she could see his blood raining down the shattered glass, see his dead eyes looking into her own. This was her drug. Imagining Johnny in so many horrifying situations, all of which resulted in his death by her hand, was the only thing really keeping her going anymore. She held onto the hope that one day she'd find the courage to take a Louisville Slugger to his fucking brain.

Once they were on the road again, she lit a cigarette and rolled her window down. After one long drag, Johnny reached across the car and slapped her mouth, knocking the cigarette from her lips and into her lap where it burned the bare skin on her legs. In spite of the fact that her flesh was burning, she knew not to scream or cry or complain. Instead, she fished the cigarette out from underneath her thigh and tossed it out the window. After, of course, visualizing herself sticking the cherry end of the cigarette into Johnny's eye.

"I told you to quit," he grumbled.

He hadn't. She would have remembered if he had, subsequently not quitting but not smoking around him, either. Fighting back tears of weakness and pain, she rubbed at the burn marks on her thighs in a failing attempt at quelling the agony caused by a much-needed cigarette. She wouldn't cry because she never cried. She wouldn't give Johnny the satisfaction of seeing her breakdown and she wouldn't allow herself to feel fragile at the hands of a man. It was all pointless to her. Ineffective.

"I haven't heard you apologize yet," Johnny pointed out.

She hated this part almost more than the abuse; apologizing for something that wasn't her fault, saying she was sorry for being nothing less than human. It was degrading, much like every other aspect of her life at the moment, but she would just as soon get it over with—return Johnny's man card back to him so they could be on their way without her having to stress over his next outburst.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, looking him directly in the eye when he glanced at her to get the full effect of her apology. "Will you please forgive me, Johnny?"

"Of course," he answered almost too quickly, but that was his game. He liked to make her grovel and cause her fear over the thought that he might not forgive her. "Just don't do it again. I see another cigarette—" he looked at her "—and I'll light you on fire with it."

She wouldn't put that past him, either. He'd taken everything to her but the kitchen sink and a lighter. She'd been on the receiving end of an iron, a skillet, fists, of course, and even fists wearing brass knuckles. Johnny pulled out all the stops when it came to making himself feel more like a man. And why not? What was the point of holding back knowing the person you were beating to a pulp wasn't going to fight back? If she ever got the chance to return the favor—a dark smirk split her lips—she wouldn't restrain herself; she would torture him, she decided, and make it last for as long as she could. Days, if at all possible. Oh, the things she would do to him. She wasn't interested in doing to him all the things he'd done to her—no, she wanted him surprised. New things he never thought of … or hadn't thought of yet.

Daydreaming was good to her. Visions of bloodied Johnnies and pleadings for his life danced in her head for what must have been hours because when her eyes focused on their surroundings, she realized they'd arrived in a very small … village? It didn't seem big enough to be considered a town and it really was smaller than what she thought a village would be, but what else could she call it then? A couple of little houses were visible along the road, as well as what appeared to be a bar called the Luna Mesa. Can't imagine why he would wanna stop here.

Johnny parked his cherished Mustang in one of many open spaces in front of the rundown bar, and she waited patiently until he kicked open his door before she did the same. She knew he liked it that way, made him feel important. He preferred to live in the days when women had no rights; when it was perfectly acceptable for husbands or significant others to beat their wives or girlfriends, to make them do all the housework while cooking and taking care of the children. That was Johnny's world. A world she believed he'd grown up in. She walked behind His Majesty as they entered the bar that turned out to be a small restaurant, though she was the furthest thing from hungry at this moment, and she sat beside him—never in front of him, so he could check out the other action around him (the women), also it was easier for him to assault her without many people noticing—after he'd taken his own seat.

She became aware of the old man staring at her behind the bar before he made his way over to them. She could count the number of other customers he had to take care of on one hand, but it still seemed a little unnecessary for him to approach them. And he eyed her the whole way, intimidating eyes and off-putting facial hair giving her chills, goosebumps painting her bare arms and legs. She'd seen much scarier men in her life, those of a younger age who might have actually posed a threat to her, but there was something about this man. He wasn't frightening per say, just … weird. He gazed upon her with an air of admiration almost. Like she was someone he'd been looking for all his life. Like she held the answer to all of his prayers. And when their eyes locked? She saw caring in those dark pools, but also something like foreboding—as if he imagined her capable of somehow turning his world upside down.

So this was what she had to show for a bachelor's degree in Psychology.

Johnny ordered himself a beer—whatever ya got, surprise me—then a water for her. She thirsted for at least six shots of Wild Turkey, but ever since she'd gotten mouthy while drinking whiskey, Johnny did not permit her to drink anymore. Of course she didn't argue with his decision. The old man gazed at her as if waiting for her to give her own order, but she simply smiled, small and quick, and his eyes narrowed reprehensibly, like a parent ashamed of their child's poor choice, before he walked silently away to retrieve their drinks.

"Creepy bastard," Johnny remarked.

She could agree with that, but there really was no reason for him to say it within hearing distance of the man serving their drinks, possibly Johnny's food. Well, whatever. She hoped the old man had heard Johnny and he was angry enough to put something in Johnny's food. Like cyanide.

She sipped her tap water leisurely, watching contemptuously as Johnny sucked down three beers she'd never heard of in rapid succession. He made no attempt at conversation with her, choosing instead to stare at the young women who entered the Luna Mesa just after sunset. Their lack of clothing went along with their lack of inhibitions and no wonder Johnny was drooling after them. He'd cheated on her before with women looking exactly like the ones filling the jukebox with quarters to play the most popular and annoying songs that kids listened to these days, except she didn't consider it cheating. The more sex he got elsewhere, the less he would take from her. Take. He never asked for it anymore, never tried foreplay to get her in the mood—he took her dry, which couldn't have been very comfortable for him, but clearly he in no way cared. He preferred most of his sex from her mouth, anyway.

"Hey!" Johnny hollered, nudging her arm with his elbow hard enough to nearly knock her off her chair. She snapped out of her trance and looked at him, having no idea how long she'd been somewhere else. "What the fuck are you doing?" Obviously he was not familiar with the term thinking.

"Nothing," she safely answered.

He snorted, shaking his head. "Make yourself useful and go get me another beer." And he belched for good measure. God, he disgusted her, so she was thankful for the option of getting up and putting space between them, although she was aware that the separation wouldn't last long.

She approached the bar, feeling the old man's eyes on her from where he stood at the other end talking to a young man who didn't look old enough to drink. Taking a seat, she hoped the ogling old man took his time before making his way over to her. Give me more time. She tilted her head, resting it on her fist, and her eyes closed, more daydreaming overtaking a mind she was beginning to feel was filling with static more and more everyday. She didn't think she was going crazy, but then again, crazy people don't know they're crazy. The more she tried thinking clearly, the more she found it to be a difficult task, and the only way she could describe the sensation in her brain was that every thought buzzed throughout her skull like static. The thought was there one minute and unraveled the next, resorted to white snow on a television. Sometimes she caught herself scratching her head, trying to itch out that irritating commotion in her mind, and that's where questions of am I crazy? blossomed.

Johnny made her this way, she knew that. Nights of endless crying and terror, more beatings to the head than she could accurately remember, a mountain of stress on her shoulders that would not lift until he decided he was finished with her … or he died. Those were the only two ways she could see out of this mess she'd gotten herself into. He wasn't always like this, but that's what they all say, isn't it? For the first year, he'd been a king treating her like a queen, and the year was just long enough for her to fall desperately in love with him and when he first hit her, she had faith he'd never do it again. When he did it again, she became afraid of him and started planning an escape. When he discovered her plan and put her in the hospital, she was stuck and they both knew it. Since then it's been a mind-boggling onslaught of fists, foreign objects, and unadulterated hatred.

Sitting at the bar alone, not having to feel his warmth and aversion he evidently had for her, produced an uncanny emotion of calm that swept over her like a warm blanket. Feeling like this was alien to her and she almost didn't know how to handle it. So she sat there, chin perched on her hand, eyes closed, listening to the meaningless conversation around her and the awful music the locals were playing. It was peaceful.

"Can I help you, young lady?"

She jumped because she always jumped when a male voice spoke to her and her eyes snapped open. The old man was standing before her, amiable smile tugging at lips hidden behind a thick graying mustache and beard. He wasn't strange anymore, but somewhat friendly. Johnny wouldn't think so.

"Yeah, um—" she stammered, completely forgetting why she'd come up here in the first place "—whatever he's having." She pointed in Johnny's direction, hand close to her chest so he wouldn't see. He'd immediately assume she was talking about him, maybe asking for the bartender's help, and God only knows what he'd do to her.

"Anything for you?" he asked skeptically, glancing over her shoulder at Johnny. She hoped he wasn't being too conspicuous.

"No, that's okay," she replied, having a little more control over her voice now.

"Are you sure?" His voice was so comforting, tranquil. She nodded nervously. "You seem like you might enjoy some … whiskey."

Fuck, would she ever! But Johnny would see her, and if he didn't see her, he'd smell it on her breath. She felt her eyes moving in Johnny's direction, but she didn't turn her head. No need to draw attention to herself now.

"No, that's alright," she declined, but he was sliding a shot glass filled to the brim with brown liquid, and she saw a bottle of Jack Daniel's in his hand just before he placed it back beneath the bar.

"On the house," he offered, uncapping a bottle of Johnny's beer for her, too.

"Really, I—"

But he was walking away from her, taking the beer with him as he rounded the bar, and it was clear he would take the beer to Johnny himself, placing his big frame between herself and Johnny so that she could take her shot. But that wouldn't steal the odor from her mouth, would it?

Jesus, she wanted it. Her mouth watered for it. She raised her hand to the bar, the palm sliding over the rough wood until the tips of her fingers met the warm glass. It would cause her trouble, she wasn't ignorant to this fact, but the craving inside of her won over her logical thought process and she grabbed the glass, knocking back the whiskey in one quick swallow. She winced against the sweet burning in her throat as the liquid fell to her stomach and she returned the empty shot glass to the bar. Her body warmed almost instantly, though she didn't quite loosen up. She wasn't afraid of what horrible thing would befall her soon as now she expected it, she knew it was coming. Of course, she didn't know exactly how bad it would be or how much pain she would have to endure, and for what? A shot of Jack Daniel's? Was it really worth that?

Yes, in her cluttered mind, it was worth it. It tasted delicious. It made her feel better. It gave her a perception of happiness and she hadn't experienced happiness in a very, very long time.

"Let me know if you'd like another," the old man conspiratorially told her when he was standing in front of her once more.

She could only smirk, a pang of sadness washing over her like a macabre baptism. She wasn't sure she'd live to have another one, and it was almost comical that the old man had no idea of the trouble she was about to be in.

"Hey!"

Her body jerked once more. Goddamn it, Johnny knew she had a fucking name. Why didn't he ever use it? She glanced up at the old man one last time, their eyes meeting, and she felt like her eyes were pleading with him to help her, but she wasn't totally certain. She'd been feeling a lot of things lately and they were all followed by speculation over whether or not she was actually suffering them. Nobody could help her now, anyway, she was fucked—fucked since Jump Street. Ultimately, she stood, testing defiance, and she held her head high as she returned to her seat beside her cruel boyfriend.

"Did you really have that weird fucker bring my beer to me?" he asked incredulously. "That's why I sent you up there, fucking idiot." Half of the beer in question was gone. She didn't know how they were getting to Vegas because he'd rather drive drunk and kill them than allow her to drive his precious car.

"He offered," she shortly replied, aiming her mouth away from him.

"So?" He grabbed her hair suddenly, yanking it back with all the force he could muster without alerting the other customers to what he was doing, and he shoved his face against her ear. Instinct told her to cry out, but her lips tightened to maintain silence for fear of something worse than simple hair pulling. "I didn't ask if he offered, did I?"

"No," she forced out, neck muscles screaming, hair threatening to detach itself from her scalp in utter surrender. "I'm sorry."

"Is that—" He turned her face toward him, pressing his nose into her mouth, and she knew it was all over with then. "Did you … did you drink whiskey while you were sittin' up there all fuckin' pretty for the old ass bartender?" He relinquished his death grip on her hair only to grab her chin and jerk her face to him. "Did you?"

"He said it was on the house," she obediently answered through clenched teeth and crushed lips.

"And that made it fucking alright?"

"No."

He pushed her head away from him, glaring at her with murderously dark eyes that chilled her right down to her bones. She thought the death stare he was giving her was a promise of things to come, but then he stood, towering over her and foreshadowing their entire relationship: he was above her, better than her, just like every other man on the planet. He turned to the bartender who'd probably been watching the entire scene unfold—she hoped he felt ashamed of himself; he'd gotten her to this point, after all—and asked where the bathroom was. Actually, he demanded to know where it was, taking out less than a quarter of his anger on the old man, and the seasoned bartender returned a matching glower that lasted long enough to make her wonder if he wasn't going to put a stop to all this. But he didn't. Of course he didn't. He pointed out where the bathrooms were, and Johnny picked her up by the sleeve of her t-shirt, dragging her along behind him toward the privacy he required to beat every last bit of resistance out of her. You'll never have another drink again, bitch.

She was thrown into the tiny confines of the men's bathroom, her forehead meeting angrily with a wall where she nearly collapsed against it if not for Johnny's hand reclaiming her hair. He spun her around, forced her back into the wall, and then he backhanded her, knuckles landing perfectly on her cheekbone and lip, and she pinballed into the corner, bouncing off each wall before falling to her knees. Her mind became clouded, more so than usual, and her vision blurred. She blinked, slow, hard, trying to correct her vision while fighting off the agonizing throbbing from her forehead and the right side of her face. This wasn't the worst beating she'd ever received by far, but it was entirely possibly that he wasn't finished yet. His boots were in front of her, still, portentous. Her head shook like a cartoon character trying to clear the air of stars or birds and she didn't pray for it to be over—God is dead—like any other woman would; she just waited. Waited for more, waited for him to walk away satisfied with himself.

He spit on her. And that made him feel good, confirmed his status of more important than her, and he snorted at her fall from grace before slapping his fingers across the top of her head—a hollow thwack echoing off the walls of the tiny bathroom—before he opened the door. She expected a crowd to be waiting for them outside, all of them wondering what the hell had been going on in the men's bathroom, none of them concerned with intervening, but there was no one out there. Johnny checked his reflection in the mirror and then told her to clean herself up because she'd already drawn enough attention to herself for one night. She'd already planned on doing so, though not for the same reason.

The mirror, however, produced an image she did not recognize. The elbow-length dirty blonde hair was mildly familiar, but the chocolate eyes weren't brown so much as they were black now. And the cavernous lines etched beneath those eyes were not from age. The woman looking back at her was a stranger, a victim, a borderline bedlamite. Blood trickled from her swollen lip and a red welt had taken up residence on her cheek from Johnny's knuckles. By tomorrow, it would be a full on bruise, also a red flag that she was the prey of a malevolent man and too cowardly to do anything about it. Whatever. She was used to it.

The nebulous eyes in the mirror gazed back at her, repugnant, mocking, flickering with something she'd never seen before. She started, head jerking to the side, unsure if she was seeing things due to the recent trauma to her head. It was a disconnection, an emancipation of … coherence and cognizance to make room for more static and an unknown amount of instability. She didn't know this, or she did and she refused to accept or acknowledge it. Things were slowly coming apart in her brain, thoughts and memories disintegrating, emotions losing meanings, facts she'd learned about her own growing condition forgotten but not gone. She comprehended none of this, her dismantling mind allowing her only to centralize on her physical injuries. She wiped the blood from her chin and lip, gazing curiously down at the liquid on her thumb before once again raising her eyes to the shattered reflection of a breaking woman. Her lids fell to half mast as she raised her finger to the mirror, using the pad of her thumb to paint a small X right between her addled eyes. She didn't know why she did it and she didn't even really notice she was doing it until after she finished. It was a goodbye gesture, a farewell to the person she once was.

Johnny was dancing with the obnoxious girls who'd played the jukebox when she returned to her seat at their table. She felt no anger toward him or jealousy of the girls. She didn't feel anything. Didn't or couldn't. Neutrality. She was Switzerland now. Brushing her fingers through her tangled hair, she leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, nostrils filling with the toothsome aroma of second-hand smoke and stale beer. Her lip was pulsating and when she ran her tongue along the warm, fluttering skin, she encountered wetness. More blood by the coppery taste that settled over her palate. She'd always found the flavor appealing, as odd as it might sound, just like she loved the smell of gasoline—she was always eager to pump gas for Johnny. A cigarette would be pleasing right about now, she thought, breathing in deeply the smoke wafting through the air, but bumming one of those cancer sticks would merely gain the same result imbibing alcohol had.

Well, maybe this time he'd kill her.

Ha, she smiled, fat chance.

A ruckus near the entrance to the Luna Mesa drew her jittery attention, and she watched a group of locals—locals being the only way she knew to describe them and their dirty skin, equally grungy clothes, surly attitudes, and the way they greeted mostly everyone in attendance, particularly the bartender—file in and block the doorway with their size and numbers. Not to be judgmental, but she assumed they were the rowdy regulars that no one really liked being around but had to tolerate because they were friends with the bartender. The one in front with the short, dark hair seemed to be the "leader" of the bunch, pushing people out of his way to clear a path to the bar where he only waited a few seconds before a bottle of whiskey and several shot glasses were placed in front of him. He poured a shot for himself and gulped it down, then he filled the other glasses and passed them around.

She didn't know why she watched him so closely, but her eyes would move nowhere else. She wasn't even sure where Johnny had gotten off to. The local in the black work shirt, jeans, and scuffed boots didn't say much, though his friends were speaking to him, all of them cackling boisterously over something that evidently did not entertain their elusive compatriot. He chose to concentrate on his drinking instead, devouring nearly half the bottle before he offered a third set of shots. She got the sense that he was more of a loner, keeping a circle of associates for untold benefits. His hair was greasy and shined beneath the harsh lights overhead, grease or dirt stains decorated his face and neck, and his clothing was wrinkled and blemished as well. Not at all attractive, though to be fair, she'd only seen the side of his face. The air surrounding him presented malignancy. Thanks to her schooling and personal experience, she was easily able to pick up on his hostility. With an evil smirk, she could only hope Johnny made trouble with that sinister stranger.

Checking out again, she sent her attention to the window, glancing over the cars in the parking lot. A few sedans, mostly trucks. Nothing interesting happening outside, but it was just fine and dandy to sit there and look—not worry, not clench her muscles against contact from her boyfriend. The table shook then, suddenly, briefly petrifying her and freezing her mind and body.

But it wasn't Johnny who'd sat next to her.