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Well-trained

Content: dehumanization, living weapon whumpee, unnamed panic attack, auditory hallucinations, dissociation, unrealiable narrator, isolation, conditioned whumpee.

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(Curse of Withering masterpost)

The way to the training wing was... discomforting.

Cyrus was confused as to why he wasn't given his injection– he was sure it was morning– until they stepped on the training wing. His stomach had dropped and hasn't lifted ever since.

It's been a while, hasn't it? Cyrus doesn't really remember the last time he was taken here. His magic isn't really... something that is trained. He doesn't really control it. The voices just... do as they wish–

𝚈𝚎𝚜, 𝚠𝚎 𝚍𝚘.

... He dislikes not taking his morning injection. As uncomfortable as taking it is, at least it takes the voices away–

𝚆𝚑𝚢 𝚜𝚘 𝚖𝚞𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚞𝚜, 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎?

–and takes the bad, vicious feeling away. He always feels... nauseous. A weird in-between the euphoria of the magic he hasn't used yet and the comedown of something he hasn't been through.

It isn't as bad as it could be. The longer he is without the injection, the worst he feels.

He heard Mr. Wilson and Mx. Mayfield speak with staff members before; before 6 hours is good, until 12 is manageable, after is dangerous, longer than 24 and he has to be put under as an emergency. Knowing that only made him more scared of it.

𝚂𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎?

You, he can't help but to think. Me, he whispers in his own mind.

The voices laugh. He thinks. It sounds like a laugh to him, but when he tries to focus on it, he can only hear screams and singing and–

He whines with a sharp head pain. A hand squeezes his upper arm. Mr. Wilson's hands. Right, training ring– wing.

Cyrus feels so dizzy. All his restrictions are on, so he doesn't know if he's veering. Can he know he is veering? How would he know-

𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎, 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎.

Are the voices getting louder already?

"Down," Mr. Wilson's voice– voice– speaks sternly.

Cyrus falls down to his bruised knees. Hears his collar being chained to the ground. Were they at his training room already?

The nullification glasses are taken off, the rest stays. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to actually process the light– the bright light.

Immediately, he notices the amount of people watching him through the reinforced glass; scientists, Mx. Mayfield, staff members he doesn't recognize– and as his eyes focus on them, someone makes the glass dark for him. He looks down to the white floor and concentrates on Mr. Wilson. Concentrates on the grounding pain layering his body.

His body hurts– it always does, a little, but some days it hurts worse. Light bruises formed again on places where muscles and fat weren't able to protect the bones from the hard ground, and the surroundings of his spine ache nonstop, no matter what position he tries to incline to in hopes the pain diminishes.

"Your training targets will be small today. Control yourself."

Cyrus will try his best. He always does.

———

For the first time in a long time, he has to think of numbers again while withering. All the recent times he had to wither, the magic– the voices– knew that to do, he just had to point the direction well, hold of for a set amount of seconds to each kilometre, and then let the magic unleash. At the beginning, though, the voices didn't let themselves be controlled, his magic never obeyed– not that it does now, it just no longer fights back during, he pays the price after– and he had to be lucid, to remember the numbers and the diameter and... and...

He doesn't remember much. Mx. Mayfield taught him a lot of numbers back then, calculus with... the river-named thing, what was it... delta? There was a "s" and "t", he thinks, but he doesn't remember. It's been so long since it mattered.

It probably matters, now. It helped back then, if only to keep him focused, or distracted, maybe it would now.

Because now he is getting the range wrong. It's just a little, just a bit out of the shape delimitated on the floor for him to wither, but it is enough for his handler to scold him, to hold on his neck where the collar doesn't press and hiss, "bad."

It's been a long while since he had to do such controlled, short-range withering. "I'm sorry," he apologises in a clear voice to avoid further punishment. He truly is. There's so many people watching behind those black glasses, he must be disappointing so many people, must be making his handler look bad, must be as much as an uncontrollable beast as they think he is.

"Don't be sorry. Be good."

He tries.

———

It could have been minutes or hours or days before–

𝙷𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜, 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎.

Before he feels so tired he wants to cry, he wants to wail and beg to lay down again on the cold hard floor and– it hurts to stand.

Cyrus was barely in control of the magic anymore–

𝙰𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎?

Stop. Stop already. Stop talking. He was barely in–

𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚏𝚞𝚕.

Cyrus sobs as a wave of pain courses his veins.

Mr. Wilson keeps snapping orders. Wither a small plant, stop, stand up, kneel, wither another one, arms out, stand up, wither an animal he doesn't want to hurt, kneel, stand up, wither, kneel–

𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚖.

He doesn't. He keeps withering for him. Euphoria fills him too quick before it is taken away, to a point it is nothing more than a burst of energy, Cyrus is unable to differentiate euphoria and comedown anymore, he doesn't know if he's even passing through them or not, or if this should have another meaning, another name–

He obeys.

———

"Stop."

𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝.

Stop.

Cyrus keens as he forces, again and again and again, the magic to slow down, to stop. Each small recede was punished with a cold, excruciating pain consuming his veins. It rebels against being told what to do, rebels the idea of receding again after already being let out again.

"Quiet," Mr. Wilson orders, and Cyrus notices a screeching that doesn't sound like him.

𝚂𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚜.

A sob hitches his chest, but doesn't make a sound, doesn't have the breath to do so anymore. How did he have a few seconds ago? Was the screeching actually him or was the voices? The voices were so loud–

"Forward."

He does, he bends forward as he does for the injection– please give him the injection, please take the voices away– but again nothing happens, it's just to see if he will obey, and he will, he is obedient, please let him stop–

𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚜, 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎.

Please stop hurting me, he begs.

———

Stay. Spin. Kneel. Up. Down. Arms out. Hands. Open. Close. Forward. Breathe. Legs up. Walk. Sit. Quiet. Speak. Stand up.

Is that all? Is he remembering them all? He doesn't know, but he will obey, he will, even if he doesn't remember, his body does, he will obey, he doesn't have to keep training–

"Breathe."

He is, isn't he? Isn't he? It hurts, he wants to rest, please let him rest–

"Wither, breathe," someone– Mr. Wilson, it's Mr. Wilson– orders, voice firm. Always firm.

He tries, Wither tries– he tries– Wither?

𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎, 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎.

They don't sound firm– don't they? Do the voices have tones? He never knows, he just knows, it doesn't make sense, they're not voices at all until they are and he understands–

𝚂𝚑𝚑𝚑, 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎, 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎.

Sweet– Wither– He– tries, and tries. Chokes on sobs that suck in and punch out the air his lungs work so hard to hyperventilate in, his body shakes so much, it hurts–

"We'll take a break. Breathe," a voice– a real voice–

𝚆𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕, 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎.

Sobs. Breathes. Sobs. Breathes. Is laid down by firm and safe hands, has head secured by them, sobs, breathes, listens for commands that only says to breathe, to breathe, to move fingers in order, to look to the light, to breathe.

Breathe.

———

Cyrus may have slept, he isn't sure, but if he did, it was a dreamless one. His mind just blacks out for some time–

𝙻𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛.

... and everything was kinda the same as before. But now he could breathe, for some reason.

Mr. Wilson helps him sit up, and he is too ashamed of needing the help to thank him, and dreads the moment he has to wither again.

But he doesn't. Those orders don't come back.

They just practice verbal orders. Again and again. It's hard to do them with stiff muscles and bruised skin and tired bones, but he manages enough. He's told to stop pouting. He's told to obey.

Until he's not told to do anything.

Mr. Wilson starts gesturing, the way he sometimes does when they need to be silent, or just when he wants to. Cyrus needs to keep an eye– a polite eye– on the gestures of his head and hands, has to pay attention to where the pressure on his neck or shoulder pushes him to go. Has to know what Mr. Wilson wants, even when he is blinded again.

It feels like it was supposed to be hard, but it isn't. The voices are calmer, ebbing away as Cyrus obeys his handler with a peaceful ease. He knows Mr. Wilson, even blinded, even deafened. He knows to differentiate when someone else's gloved hands try to guide him and fail to make him compliant. He knows when it is Mr. Wilson's again. He knows the vibration of his voice when he's close, knows the way he breathes and how he whispers an order even when he can't listen to it.

And he knows it is time to leave, and that he did a good job, when the hand lays gently between his scapulas and leads him to a long walk.

———

Cyrus can barely think, and it takes him a minute to realize they were inside the shower's hall. Mr. Wilson lets him sit on the floor for a little while he does something on the screen of his glove, and he takes the mercy without hesitation.

He doesn't stare, because eavesdropping is bad and he is given a reward because he is good, but he notices that Mr. Wilson doesn't seem to be doing much on the gloves. Cyrus isn't allowed to see it, but Mr. Wilson usually uses the screen on his glove to open things, communicate and other fast things, or to monitor him. He doesn't spend much time looking at it ever.

Cyrus pretends not to notice.

Their shared silence lasts just time enough for Cyrus to feel confident in his ability to stay up by himself.

"C'mon up. Go wash yourself. You have ten minutes today, so wash up yourself well." Mr. Wilson waits until he's stable on his feet before stepping out and closing the door.

... Cyrus doesn't have the energy to figure out why he is being given extra time today. And maybe that's why. He feels so tired.

He undresses, pushes his clothes in the laundry chute door and steps in when the automatic door opens. It feels like that part is slower today.

Since Mr. Wilson told him to wash well, he pays an extra attention to washing and untangling his hair, then washing his private parts well. The shower helps to clear his mind, but it's still so foggy, and he has to hold himself up by the wall.

It's only when the shower is off, and he's taking the clean clothes from the same laundry chute door– he always wonders how they clean inside of it, how do they know when to send the dirty clothes down and sending the clean ones from above– that his thoughts catch up and he finally comes to the most obvious conclusion he should have gotten to when he first noticed something was off.

They were leaving somewhere. He was being taken somewhere. This level of preparation wasn't what they did before campaigns, it wasn't routine. Well, some parts of it, yes, but not all together, not like this.

He doesn't manage to think farther than that, because the fog makes it hard to see, and when Mr. Wilson opens the door, everything goes black again.

When he wakes up, with a new blank spot in his memory collection, his eyes stare up at the campaign's capsule ceiling.

-

Short Wilson's POV of what happens while Cyrus is given a break.

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