Codename K (placeholder title) follows the story of Kev, a living weapon raised in captivity. But he's not the only character going through stuff!
You don't need to read the side stories to understand the main story, and vice versa. However, all characters are connected and featured / will eventually feature in the main story.
❋ Codename K: Kev 🗡️
Kev is a living weapon in training, raised in secret by a powerful General. He does not approve of his situation. He also really doesn't want to die.
❋ Side Story: The Watchdog 👊
[COMPLETE] How Rhuls came to be Leska’s watchdog. I mean, pupil. Featuring Smol Kev!
❋ Side Story: Khore 🪖
Khore was is a young military prodigy. He totally still is. Even if he chocked and ended up in the hands of the enemy. He'll show this bunch of weak cowards who dared put him in chains!
Whumpee recounting their experiences with Whumper calmly, eloquently, remaining fully composed in front of their Team.
That is, except for the shaking. They hide their hands in their pockets, but their shoulders and legs shake too. They swallow, but it doesn’t keep the trembling fully out of their voice. They sit, pretend to cough, give a reassuring smile to their friends. Whumpee is strong. Whumpee has standards to keep up with. They’re better than their body’s betrayal.
Team notices, but they know better than to comment on it in the moment.
i would like to extend that sexual assault ask to khore because i’m curious now after reading it
Khore has had no SA episodes while in Vekta, although he does have a complex relationship with sex, being a sex repulsed asexual. He is fine with sex talk and even sex happening in his presence, but hates being touched sexually in any way.
He struggles to reconcile how he feels with the expectation (fully internalized) to father children and pass on his good genetics to the family line, which is very important in the culture, especially for strong warriors like he is. Up to getting captured, he's been avoiding partaking in sexual encounters like the plague, with the excuse (to others and himself) of needing to 100% focus on his training.
I am not certain if something may or may not happen in his slave years. Currently I'd say no, because I think giving him a "reason" to hate sex might muddy the waters and make his struggle towards acceptance less interesting... it's not set in stone however, it's one of those things were I might find a different thematic angle and flip my decision. I'd also like to do more research and get some input from aspec people, so... who knows!
Caretaker wasn’t weak. Years of living on their own had required them to build enough muscle to fend for themselves. Sure, it wasn’t uncommon for friends to visit when Caretaker was feeling up to company, but as a general rule, they alone were responsible for taking care of their home and everything in it.
Everything and everyone. Unknown, injured mystery guests included.
The problem was… Weapon was heavy. And unconscious.
Sweat poured down Caretaker’s back just thinking about carrying Weapon upstairs to their spare bedroom. They’d hoped Weapon would wake up, grateful for the gentle nursing Caretaker had given them, and walk to the bed on their own two feet, especially since they’d already dragged them nearly three miles out of the forest.
At least this time no one was drenched in blood. It seemed their stitches were going to hold as well. Weapon was clean and wrapped up in nearly every bandage in the house.
That in mind, Caretaker’s current top priorities were: settling Weapon somewhere they could rest, throwing themselves into the hottest shower imaginable, and finally sleeping for the next two days. The order of completion was still flexible.
Every exhausted muscle in their body shook as they lowered Weapon onto the mattress. The blankets on the bed were thin, but soft. Hopefully, they would be able to sleep easily without overheating or too much pain.
The last light of the day reached through the window and brushed across Weapon's face. Caretaker couldn’t say they looked peaceful in the warm glow. Heavy scars marred their skin, casting shadows that distorted their features. Scars that matched the marks covering most of their body. A history that couldn’t be forgotten.
They turned away. That would have to be good enough for now. A hot shower just took top priority on their to-do list.
And yet, Caretaker couldn’t seem to enjoy it. Wind buffeting the house until it groaned became Weapon crying out in pain in their ears. Heavy drips from the leaky faucet were Weapon's footsteps on the way out the door, too scared to realize they had been brought to a safe place. Every flicker of the old lightbulb was a sign that whoever had abandoned Weapon for dead had returned to finish the job. A shower could do nothing to clean Caretaker’s mind.
Of course, Weapon was fine. They hadn’t so much as twitched in their sleep when Caretaker returned to the room to check on them one last time. Alive and breathing, comfortable and slow.
Weapon continued to sleep through most of the next day. Through Caretaker’s stumbling around, cleaning up the clutter that built up while the room was empty. Changing their bandages nearly roused them, but their pinched expression smoothed back, and they never opened their eyes.
Caretaker had no choice but to leave for more bandages soon after. They hadn’t had enough to replace all the original ones. Leaving them for much longer would open up too many opportunities for infection.
They were sure the poor teen at the checkout lane would report them. Their eyes had widened at the mountain of first aid supplies. As Caretaker caught a falling bandage and mumbled an excuse they couldn’t remember seconds after it had been said, they motioned for a passing employee to stay nearby. It was a subtle motion, but one Caretaker had been looking for, and they seemed to know it.
Yet, no one stopped Caretaker. Eyes followed them, sure, but no one brought in management or pressured Caretaker for a more acceptable answer.
When they made it home, a noise upstairs was nearly covered by the crashing of the heavy shopping bags on the counter. It had, it seemed, been too much to hope their guest would continue sleeping through their absence. They had a feeling they should be grateful they weren’t immediately attacked upon opening the front door.
Knock knock. Caretaker kept the warning of their presence soft so as not to scare Weapon. The last thing they needed was to strain their wounds by jumping at the sound of the door. “Excuse me, Weapon? Are you awake? I’ve got fresh bandages for you.”
Silence.
Caretaker peeked in the door.
A trail of blankets led to where Weapon was kneeling. One end was still wrapped around their left foot. Their hands rested extremely still in their lap, a bandage only half wrapped up their arm from where they appeared to have been rewrapping it. Despite the noise of panic Caretaker made as they entered the room, they kept their eyes trained on a spot in the floor only they could see.
“Holy… What happened? Why are you out of bed? Are you okay? Moving didn’t rip your stitches, did it?”
“No.” Weapon’s voice was gravelly from disuse. “My stitches are in acceptable condition.”
Kneeling beside Weapon, Caretaker dumped their bag of supplies and reached for their hand. “Are you sure? I should probably have a look anyway. Can I help you finish rebinding your arm? It looks way too tight. Does it hurt?”
Weapon’s eyes flick up for a split second before settling back down. They hold their arm out in front of them and chew on just enough of their lower lip to notice the motion.
“Thank you.” Caretaker decides to remove the hanging bandage altogether and grabs a new, clean one from the pile. “You didn’t answer the question. Are you hurting much?”
Hand twitching in Caretaker’s grasp, Weapon shook their head. “The pain is within acceptable parameters.”
“So you are in pain. I’d be shocked if you weren’t. I’d like to get some food in you before you take some medicine. Do you think you’ll be okay waiting for me to heat up some of the soup I bought? Goodness, I think you’ve got a fever now as well.”
When Caretaker looked up from their arm, Weapon flinched away. They had finally been looking up, but curled in on themselves like they expected to be attacked for the action. It wasn’t painting a good picture of what they had been put through. Or easing the tension of how they had been found.
Caretaker kept their movements slow and readable as they lifted Weapon’s head to look at them. “You’re safe now. Do you understand?”
“No, Master.”
Caretaker startled a little at the title. “What don’t you understand?”
Weapon sat silent. Their eyes were tortured with things they weren’t saying.
“Are you in pain?”
“The pain is within acceptable parameters.”
“So the answer is yes?” Caretaker let their thumb rub lightly over Weapon’s scarred cheek and tried not to startle when they leaned ever so slightly into the touch.
“Yes, Master.”
“Can you wait until after you’ve eaten some soup to take something for the pain, or do you need the relief first?”
Weapon’s lips parted in a light pant as their eyes flicked across Caretaker’s face, searching. Even they didn’t seem to know what they were searching for. No words could seem to slip past that wall of panic.
Caretaker released their face, hoping some distance would ease their anxiety. “Hey, you’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you. It’s okay if you don’t have an answer. All I’m trying to do is figure out the best way to help.”
“Why?”
The single word, an unpermitted question, broke the wall. Weapon curled in on themselves. Hands on the back of their neck, elbows touching the ground, and knees spreading slightly wider. Their back was exposed. Sides open. Breathing thick with fear.
“Hey, hey, no! You’re going to rip your stitches!” Caretaker gasped and pulled Weapon back upright. “It’s okay! Slow your breathing. I’m not going to hurt you. It was a good question.”
Weapon helped Caretaker shift their body back until they were resting against the side of the bed. They looked exhausted and yet completely aware of every move Caretaker made. Only, unlike the first time they woke up, they didn’t seem to be considering attacking as an option. There was only acceptance for whatever Caretaker decided to do.
Checking their stitches carefully, Caretaker sighed with relief. “It’s alright. You’ve only opened up one small spot on your arm. I’ll need to change the bandage for that, but we can wait until it stops bleeding first.”
Weapon wasn’t looking at them again.
“Hey, can you hear me?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Then pay close attention. I will not intentionally hurt you. I do not want you to be in pain. I do want you to tell me what you need and anything else I might need to know. As well as anything you want me to know. I don’t know what all whoever abandoned you like this did, but you are safe here.”
Caretaker could have sworn they saw a tear in Weapon’s eye before it was blinked away.
“Do you have any food allergies I need to know about?”
“No, Master.”
“Okay. Here’s what is going to happen.” Caretaker lifted Weapon’s face again so they could see the calm honesty in their expression. “I am going to go downstairs for a bit. You need medicine for the pain, but I’m not sure how long it’s been since you’ve eaten, and I don’t want you to throw it up on an empty stomach. I’m going to bring you something to eat and some water. Then, we’ll talk.”
Caretaker found them attempting to bandage their own wounds. Their hands shook as they tried to anchor the white strip to their bloody chest, not bothering to clean the injury. It should have hurt. The stranger should have been crying, screaming, but their expression remained neutral; not a single tear joined the blood beneath them.
“Holy…” Caretaker gasped, and the stranger’s head jerked up to search for them. “What happened?”
Despite the pure chaos of noise Caretaker made as they dashed for the injured person, the stranger struggled to locate them through the brush. They pushed themselves to their feet, using the tree behind them for support, and began walking away—a slow, unsteady trek with bandages hanging off their body in multiple places.
The smell of vomit and blood made Caretaker’s stomach churn. A clear path of trampled and stained underbrush opened up and marked the direction the stranger had come from. It also made it much easier to follow them.
Worry tinged their voice as Caretaker gained on them, “Stop! I’m not going to hurt you. Hey, listen, you need help!”
One of the trailing bandages bounced and twisted around a sapling, and the stranger made a sound for the first time. They stumbled, pulled back into the growing tree, and collapsed as it broke under their weight. The whimpering gasp they made seemed to draw out more of a reaction than anything else had. They were afraid.
“It’s okay! Don’t move. It’s okay, I just want to help you.” Caretaker cooed as they cut away the trapped bandages and helped the stranger roll over onto their back. They could feel the person trembling with each light touch. “I’m sorry. I know it hurts. I’m sorry. You’re safe with me. I promise, I’m not going to do anything to hurt you intentionally.”
“I don’t—” The person’s voice was weak and the words unsure. Their eyes widened as they looked up at Caretaker, and one hand clapped over their mouth.
Caretaker pulled their hand away from their face and assessed the scrapes, cuts, and scars covering every inch of it, “You’re alright. My name is Caretaker. Can you tell me your name?”
“Special Unit 305. Designated title: Weapon.” The stranger gasped as their eyes rolled back. The tension in their body eased, and their hand went limp as they lost consciousness.
It wasn’t easy to finish the job bandaging the dying stranger. Caretaker wished they had brought their hiking kit, but they hadn’t expected to run into anyone on that side of the forest or to walk as far as they did. No one ever passed through the section they were in. It was dangerous, no man’s land.
To their surprise, Weapon didn’t wake up through the process.
To their concern, Weapon also didn’t wake up as Caretaker carried them back to their home.
Quickly and with the efficiency of someone with three incredibly clumsy younger siblings, Caretaker cleaned and properly dressed Weapon’s wounds. One on their side looked like a bullet had passed clear through. Long cuts they supposed came from some sort of knife or other blade. Bruises in the shapes of fists and boot treads.
Caretaker decided the last cut needed stitches. It wasn’t long, but it looked dangerous, twisting from their collarbone and up the side of their neck. Of course, acknowledging stitches were needed and actually giving them are two different things. The needles and supplies they needed were in their emergency bag, but they’d never even considered trying actually to do it before.
So, they did what anyone else would do in a situation like that. They pulled up a tutorial video and set it to play on repeat.
The first stitch, they had trouble getting their knot to hold. The second and third were too far apart, so they had to try to fit the fourth in between to keep the wound closed. Fifth and sixth wouldn’t win them any awards, but they would work. And the seventh…
The seventh would have gone exactly where Weapon’s thumb pressed into Caretaker's throat. The stranger was awake and on them faster than Caretaker could blink. With a bang, they slammed Caretaker’s head against the wall, and for a second, Caretaker saw stars.
Weapon stayed silent, chest heaving as their eyes studied Caretaker’s face. Their lips parted like they were going to say something, but closed without a sound.
Instead, their hand lifted, reaching for the thread hanging from their neck.
“Don’t!” Caretaker gasped from beneath Weapon’s slowly loosening hold, “Don’t. It’s not done.”
“I don’t…” Weapon blinked and stumbled, releasing Caretaker to support themselves with the wall on either side of Caretaker’s head. “I don’t want to die.”
Caretaker tried to catch them as they fell to their knees, but Weapon was too heavy. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
Tw: SA (feel free to skip this if it makes you uncomfortable) Considering how cruel Leska and his right hand man are did they ever rape their LWs or let them be sexually assaulted as a punishment? They could have even pretended (or actually used it) for training reasons so that all their LWs would be able to "withstand all kinds of torture" in case they fell into enemy hands. Or maybe they didn't do it but just threatened to do it instead whenever Kev was too stubborn, to make him obey their commands out of fear. Would it be successful in making Kev submit or is he so distant towards his own body that a punishment like that wouldn't be different to him than simply being stabbed?)
You could say, on one hand, Kev lucked out, because Leska finds human intercourse disgusting and beneath him. His only concern is that the weapon can control those filthy animal urges.
However, if those threats did happen, basically option B, but it's more complicated than that.
More under the cut because of tw!
Disclaimer: we're about to delve into Kev's fucked up perception of things, what follows is not how *I* think of rape. Just to be sure cause this is the internet...
First thing to keep in mind is Kev never developed a concept of shame (or pride, or humiliation), let alone any association between sexuality and shame.
That said, Kev has a weird relationship with sex - there are some aspects there that are not fully healthy, but it is very positive. There's a whole psychological rabbit hole here, but it basically works in terms of positive association.
He's never gonna see a sexual act done to him as bad, because he enjoys sex. There's no "against his will". Why wouldn't he want it, he likes it. He might hate you, but he still likes it.
Then, if you're hurting him in a "sexual" way, well, that's just torture, the same as being forced to swallow poison is torture and not having a drink. Once established it's simple torture, his only concern would be the damage and possible complications, cause oh boy he does not want infections where he can't reach. If he walks away with some minor bruising, a stabbing is actually much worse!
Finally, if you try to force back a connection between torture and sex, say, by making it both punishing and pleasurable... well, pleasure actually makes the pain easier to bear, so your torture is less effective? What are you doing? That's weird of you, but he's not gonna complain.
He basically doesn't get what makes rape defiling. He does get the power play aspect of it, but to that he can react like he does to everything else in his life. It's always a power struggle, and he is very apt at playing the game.
I think you should write about atlas getting beat as a punishment in his training days. It probably isn’t worth it using corporal punishment for all the trainees but it’s for the whump ok
i like the way you think.
little drabble that takes place while atlas was still in eden. he was about fifteen here !! ft. cato of course :)
CW › Minor whump, corporal punishment, humiliation, multiple whumpers, living weapon whumpee, carewhumper, institutional abuse, grooming, kneeling, intimate whumper
· ─ ·✶· ─ ·
“Sorry.” He chokes out. “I’m sorry.”
He’s on his knees. Keeled over, nails digging into his thighs. Typically, they would tie him up. If he were anyone else, he already would be. But he knows better than to fight. Take the hit, swallow the blood. Kneeling feels good, natural. He would never dare resist it. He’s meant to be down here. He understands. It calls, something within him, a buried, deep-rooted desire. Beneath them, bent over. He knows, with long standing clarity; it’s only right.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats.
Blood drips from his nose. Steady, persistent. His front has been spotted by it, a smattering of dark red, fresh. He can feel it drying upon his face, cracking along the curves of his lips, the dip of his chin. Itchy, stretched thin when his expression twitches and the mask slips. He blinks back the waves of emotion, swallows away the sudden urge to reach up, swipe the wet from his face, dare look them in the eyes. He doesn’t. He only swallows, adams apple bobbing, lines drawn between his brows. A minute change, enough they cannot punish him for it. Head bowed, a dull pulsing through his skull, where fist met skin, he reckons with it. This beating. Blood on his clothes, pooling steadily along the traces of his hands, curving around the black ink etched against the skin. Dipping in the ridges between vein. He bit down on his tongue when the first hit came. It’ll ache later, with the bruises around his eyes. Red, blue, green, then yellow. He’ll apply concealer to them in the morning with tense fingers, pretend that none of it ever happened.
Punishments are only a collective of seconds, minutes, hours. A punch to the nose, fingers curled around his bicep. The rake of a whip. He can take it. There are sixty seconds in a minute. Three thousand six hundred in an hour. He can manage that. Punishments rarely will last longer. Not here, in the light, men’s eyes glaring down at him. He is in the open, blood on his face, something sore aching in his back, and yet. It is all entirely tolerable. An hour reduced to minutes. Minutes reduced to seconds. Only time. Time, before the promise of an end. Something soft. He doesn’t cry, nor does he shake. He does not argue, or resist the pain. He takes it, face turnt down; ready, pliant. It’ll all be over soon, that’s the important part. What really matters. He waits it out. Take the pain, bite your tongue. Repent for all that has been done, that he ever will do—
Boot to cheek. His head swings to the side, an involuntary cough escaping his trembling lips. He shudders. His hair is undone, comes down in straight, dark rows along his face. He’s suddenly fortunate for it. He doesn’t want them to see it, the shock of the blow. The fear that wracks his body, barely contained, even now.
No, that’s not right. He couldn’t give a shit about them.
It’s her he cares about.
She stands at the edge of the room, away from the mess. The men have blood — his blood — on their boots, their pants, rubbed against their knuckles. It’s on the floor, a ring of red that encircles him in his spot, knelt down, shameful. She doesn’t dare touch it. Watching, separate, glorious. She has her arms crossed over her chest, eyes trained onto him and him alone. There is something pristine about her, even now, in all her fury. Oh, she’s livid. He knows it. Feels it, felt it, the moment she dared allow him within her presence. She is rarely so angry with him. He must have done something heinous to upset her in such a way. He can’t be sure. The details have begun to escape him. Cato’s eyes on him, nothing else is relevant. Beaten down, vulnerable, as she watches on. And she does not attempt to stop any of it.
He guesses he should feel betrayed. Hurt. She promised him no pain, she promised him protection. But he knows he deserves it, in one way or another. He always does. It’s humiliating, more than anything, that they called her down here. Watching, the disappointment written along his swollen skin. He wishes she would cast her gaze away. He wishes she would leave altogether. To fail her… why, there is no comparison on all of earth. Her disappointment washes over him, the prickling of pins against his cheek. Disgust, bared against his soul. He shivers on the pure weight of it. He wishes to shed his skin, to bend further, press the tip of his forehead to the bloody, cold floor. He wishes to atone for all it is he has done to anger her. Plead with her for forgiveness. Sitting in it, allowing it to fester. Lead in his blood, poison in his sore mouth. That’s what really fucks with him.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, quiet.
Peeking through the fringe, quick, catching glimpses at twisted expressions, the second shot of the backside of a boot. A metallic taste in his mouth, neck pulled taut, head knocked backwards. He gasps, fists clenched. Controls his movement enough to not knock flat, but not enough that they lose the satisfaction of the flinch, the instinctual snap. It’s all about the performance. Give them something to revel in. Breathing, uneven, to regain any sensation that isn’t the harsh cut of pain.
“Stand up.” What he doesn’t expect is for her to step forwards, speak through the silence. An interruption, cutting through the satisfied humming of the handler, the soft, pained gasps that come from out of his chest. Its far too early. The act hasn’t been played out, the apologies slipping past his teeth. The sorry’s repeating, persistent, until they become unintelligible and meaningless. His form slipping, slipping, slipping, pushed just to the edge. She presses a hand to the curve of the handler’s shoulder, moves him out of the spotlight. Her heels click, resounding, against the harsh concrete. Something satisfying within it. Her fury is the low roll of the tide, the ebb and flow of the waves. He can feel it, dimmer. More controlled. There’s a predictability to being in front of her, kneeling, bleeding. Just waiting for her own graciousness. He’s come to expect it.
He clambers to his feet, swaying a second by the sudden motion. Steadying, just as quickly. He’s grown taller than her by now. Just barely a few inches, but enough that when he looks into her eyes, he no longer has to look up. He hasn’t lost any of the reverence, despite. Just being within her company is enough to send a chill through his spine. She is God. He’d do anything for her. Really, he would.
She grips him by the jaw, forces him to meet her gaze. There’s blood streaking down his cheek, still, and he suddenly feels terrified by her touch. He wishes not to taint her, stain her by the reminders of his own disobedience. There’s something evil about it. But she doesn’t seem to mind, holding him in place, unrelenting. “You’ve disappointed me.” She speaks, clear. “Do you understand why?”
He goes to nod, remembers she has him in her grip. He opts for a quiet “yes, ma’am,” instead. The notion is kind of ridiculous in itself. He rarely calls her ma’am. Cato, yes, but never ma’am. Their relationship has never been so stuffy or formal. He knows, still, its what she expects. He reads it along her features, anticipates the hit if he fails to perform. She holds him carefully, but not gentle. This is not over yet. And he is to know it, too.
“I expect better from you,” she says. Her eyes are dark, piercing. He finds them magnetizing, on better days. A wonderful contrast, silver tech against her own flesh. Something beautiful. So close, he cannot help but feel like she is peering into his soul, reading the thoughts inside his mind. He cannot hide anything from her.
The grip on his face tightens. That flare of anger is back, alight in her eyes. He flinches, instinctively. Bites himself for it. Never resist.
“What do you say?” She grits out.
“I’m sorr—”
He’s slapped. It all happens so quickly that he doesn’t expect it. The nails embedding themselves into the soft of his cheek lessen, touched ripped from his skin with a startling severity; the force of the hit replacing it, a second wave of pain. He almost thinks it came from her. Almost. If not for the fact that she’s never slapped him before, and never will. That, and the fact she steps away, the indistinguishable face of the handler moving in, a replacement, features sharpening. The grin of a beast, a flash of teeth. Bright red tinging his vision, something sharp along his tongue. A breath being knocked loose.
“S—so—”
Again, harder. He sucks in a breath, foot sliding as he tries to regain his balance. Straightening, eyes dry, muscles tensed. Back straight, hands folded out in front of him. Perfect form. Understanding comes to him, slower than it usually would. He’s dizzy, almost swaying on his feet. The blood leaking from the side of his temple has left him unsteadied. His certainty is far away, distant. Something else has begun to take its place.
“Sorry,” he repeats, automatic, breath hitching.
The hit comes, and he’s ready. He holds still, keeps his head facing straight. She snaps at him anyway. “Speak.”
“I’m sorry.” Voice calm, even. Apologies flow out of him easily. He can give them readily, more than anything else. He could apologize to her until his voice went out. Even then, he’d find some way to make up for it.
The handler slaps him again. His cheek has begun to throb. Reddened, he wouldn’t be surprised if the handprint has been marked across his face, like something disgraceful. Ugly.
“I’m sorry.” He speaks, again. “I’m sor—” Smack. “I’m sorry.” Smack. “I’m sorry.” Smack. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Smack. “I’m really sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so, so—”
Smack.
It’s as his voice cracks, that she puts her hand up. He wants to flinch at just the sight of it, suddenly afraid, doubtful, that she will hurt him too. That the promises will be broken, as his promises were, when he landed himself here. When he disobeyed every other thousandth time, earned himself the crack of a whip along the length of his bare back, or a steeltoed boot to the ribs. Anything, really. All that he owes her, and all he has done to fail. He thinks she’ll truly let him feel it, an ounce of her fury. But she doesn’t. She speaks again, quieter. Dulled out. “Stop. Go.”
It’s all said so quickly he thinks it’s meant for him, the sudden dismissal. He figures she’s become so angry with him, disappointment burning so deeply, she cannot stand him within her range of sight for one second longer. But it is not he who moves, it is the handler, with hard fists and cruel eyes, that steps back. Faithfully obedient, dog on a leash. Just as he is. Footsteps receding, moving with the same fast pace in which they came. The doors shutter closed, a distant booming, silence following.
They are left alone. Quiet.
“Atlas,” she says, softer this time. Cato breaks the charade. Master and student. Son and… well, he’s not quite sure, is he? She’s an enigma. Whatever she is, and whatever he has been molded into. Fuzzy, now. With the spots of his vision, the distant rush of blood in his ears. Something unreal about it all. But none of it matters, really. Because then she is stepping closer, cupping his cheek, her lips pursed, and he forgets all that had to do with it. Her touch is gentle this time, just as he’s come to expect. Thumb brushing against the raised skin there, smoothing away the blood. It stings, still, the good kind of pain. The one he likes from her. Wiping at his reddened skin, surveying him with that soft-eyed stare, her head cocked to the side. There’s always been something private about it, special. No one has ever looked at him in such a way.
As if he’s something magnificent.
“Does it hurt?” She asks. It’s more of a whisper than anything else, like she does not mean to be heard. But he knows better, at least he thinks he does. He never truly can be sure the true meaning of her words, of any her actions. It’s all so confusing, grappling with her distant emotions, her secret desires. He wonders, silent, if this is a trick. Did it hurt? Was it supposed to?
“Yes,” he chokes on the word.
Her expression darkens, approving. Releasing him, she nods to herself. “Hm.”
CW: Aftermath, paranoia, cults, gore, demonic imagery, implied human experimentation, human sacrifice, mentioned infant death, emeto warning, HEAVY GORE, religious context, satanic worship, human remains, referenced murder, priest whumper, referenced domestic abuse/institutionalized abuse, minor whump, over-exertion, hallucinations, referenced psychosis
── ⟡ ˙
Alastair sits at his desk, hunched to avoid his back touching the chair. He’s still in agony, despite the lengthy bath he'd allowed himself and the wrap of fabric around his torso beneath his clothes. The document in front of him is nonsencial and no matter how hard he blinks, he can't make his eyes focus on it. He hasn't categorized a single file today. The sharp sting everytime he twists and the swirls of color he sees at night has kept him up. His body feels sunken in on itself. His fingers work slowly, not as expertly. He’s… tired.
A light, carrying "Alastair!" echoes out as the heavy doors groan open. Alastair recognizes the voice instantly and feels fear shoot through him. He straightens then hisses at the pull of skin on his back. With shaking hands, he grips the edge of his desk and rises, hobbling out from behind the mountain of work.
“Jeremiah…” he says slowly, giving his brother a weak smile.
Jeremiah beams, bright and excited. The high parts of his cheeks lift and it softens his face. The expression looks at home on his features, familiar and worn in. Comforting.
Red consumes Alastair's vision. Red. Smeared, dripping, pooling. Stench.
“Are you busy?” Jeremiah asks and when Alastair sees him again, his smile has dropped minutely as he glances back at the papers on the desk piled high and then takes in the sight of Alastair.
Alastair nods immediately, forcing his smile wider. It makes his cheeks feel unnaturally stretched. “No, not at all. I’ve finished up most of my work for the day." The files on his desks cowl at him.
Jeremiah doesnt push. “Working hard, then. Like usual.” He chuckles dryly.
“You could say that.” Alastair's nails scrape at the edge of his desk and he shifts. Desperate to change the subject, he asks, “What brings you down here again so soon?”
He can smell it. He's choking on it. It burns his lungs so bad. His nose. It burns it burns it burns─
Jeremiah smiles on. In fact, he looks positively giddy. “Well,” he says, speaking with bated breath. “It’s your birthday soon, isn’t it?”
He knows this already and Alastair is sure of it because he's never failed to bring him a present. His birthday has never been a big deal but Jeremiah always gets very pleasant leading up to it, dropping little hints and trying to bait Alastair into guessing his gift. “Yes, it is.”
Jeremiah smiles wider. “The big seventeen. You’ll practically be a man.” He says, clapping Alastair on the shoulder.
The sting that comes is instant and it makes Alastair want to curve away from the touch, his expression souring. He remembers Julius's words. Father had made it quite clear Alastair wasn’t a man nor would he ever be one. “You’re right." It comes out as a croak. "Though I doubt I’ll get a fancy ceremony like yours." He tries to laugh but it sounds more like a cough.
Jeremiah laughs properly, putting Alastair's attempt to shame. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” He says, smiling to himself like he’s told a really funny joke.
This makes Alastair wobble, chin pulling back. "What do you mean?”
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
Two days prior.
It had been so hard for him to find this place. He'd crept around corners with his breath held, hands shaking, waited out chattering passersby, ensured Julius was nowhere near. He'd been in this room before. Long enough ago that he wasn't sure he’d remember. But once he'd found it, he recalled every nook snd cranny. He rooted through the entire room, turning the place upside down only to put it all back together again. It was fitting that he made the discovery just before his frantic departure.
Alastair stands in the center of Father Julius's office, staring at the wooden door behind the painting he's just removed from the wall. The room around him bends and warps and he swears the door is growing, stretching and curling over him.
With every step closer to the truth he takes, the more fearful Alastair becomes. He should turn back now. He should put the painting back like it was never moved and leave Julius’s office and go back to his Archives and stay there forever and burn those horrid files so he can pretend none of this ever happened.
Alastair does not do that. He presses the small panel on the door and it clicks. The creak it makes when it slowly opens is horrible and Alastair’s hair stands on edge. He looks over his shoulder, staring down Julius's closed office door. His last chance to walk away. Now, and to never look back. He steels himself yet again, shaking his head. He needs to know. He's already made his decision. Entertaining escape now will only drag things out.
He turns to face the door again and swallows the ever growing lump in his throat. The sinuous staircase whispers, vines of chilled air slithering around his ankles, guiding him into the nether. He makes a weak, strangled sound as he carefully steps down. The step is narrower than he thought and he continues, more focused on his balance now.
When he reaches the bottom, he’s bathed in darkness and panic seizes him for a moment. He cautiously feels around with his foot before he takes a step forward and the room begins to glow a harsh red.
Alastair blinks rapidly, eyes adjusting to the strange lighting. When he can finally see properly, his stomach sinks and his skin crawls and he wishes it was pitch black again.
Alastair is standing at the edge of a completely stone room. Unlit candles line a walkway to the center of the room where they form a circle around a large symbol painted on the floor in dark ink. A moon, their symbol? He can't quite tell the details. It is all washed out in the red light, light that makes the drawing look like blood. Alastair prays that it is ink. Further into the room is a towering statue that almost reaches the low ceiling. It is a large stone creature, a figure with a goat shaped head and a bare face that splits open down the middle revealing a swarm of eyes carved hollow. Sharp wings sprouting from its back, visible even from where Alastair stands in front of it. Stretched out as if in prayer are large, clawed hands, the stone there stained darker than any other part of the scrulpture.
It's a demented, unsettled version but Alastair still recognizes the figure just as anyone would. The collective depiction of God themselves.
The statue itself is not what pulls the air from Alastair's lungs.
Resting in the outstretched talons is a mass of raw, swollen flesh. It’s fresh enough that it does not smell of rot but the stench of blood is so overpowering it burns. Ribbons of red drip steadily through stone fingers. The flow pulls clumps of hair with it. The pile is large and spills over the cupped hands. Bulbous clots of skin removed from muscle. White pearls not large enough to belong to an adult. The remnants of tiny, curled fingers gone pale.
Alastair hunches, spilling out onto the stone floor, vomit splattering across the insignia at his feet. The room spins, and his eyes burn. The sick feeling remains as he lets out a dry sob. He stumbles back until he’s leaning against the stairs. His mind is hazy and his eyes dart around frantically.
More red ink that he can no longer trust is ink is smeared on the walls. Humans, depicted small and frail are cut open, inards spilling out at the feet of four figures he recognizes as The Virtues. A fifth person stands above them, a great serpent curled at their feet. It's a woman. A lion? A raven. Every time Alastair blinks theres a new form posessing the space. He feels a dreadful pull in his gut. Something familiar. Behind them is a larger being. A black mass, void of any detail. Two unpainted holes remain on it's face like large, all-seeing eyes. Father Julius is there too. Even in the simplistic style of the inking, Alastair recognizes him, standing before a figure almost identical to the statue with the flesh in its hands.
The humans split open are not the only ones painted. Dozens of corpses are pictured strewn across the ground, mangled limbs and heads removed from bodies pile high at the feet of another figure resembling The Virtues in their depiction. Though he is seperated, regal. He adorns holy armor and is surrounded in painted beams of heavenly light. This too, is familiar.
The sound that leaves Alastair is not his own. It's animal. He pushes a hand over his mouth roughly to muffle a weak groan and still his rapid breathing. He does not remove his hand as he stumbles his way up the stairs. Nor as he pushes the wooden door at the top shut and covers it again. And his hand remains, hot and wet from his breath and tears as he slips from Julius’s office and descends back down into The Archives, shutting himself away in the dark, surrounded by his files. Even alone, slumped against the grand wooden doors he silences himself, fingers digging into his cheek and jaw.
Alastair doesn’t know how long he stays there, trembling. His body is sunken in, exhausted, useless. When he pushes himself to stands his knees are weak and they buckle beneath him as he stumbles to his desk. He stares, red-eyed into the half cracked drawer where the surreptitiously read file sits, beconing him. With false reluctance that covers up a deep hunger, he rips the drawer open and grabs the document.
With an unsteadiness to him, he rounds, and ventures deeper into The Archives to retrieve the rest of The Virtues' files.
· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·
“I’ve been talking with Father Julius,” Jeremiah says slowly as if to entice Alastair. “You’re getting older now, your coming of age is right around the corner."
Alastair hangs to his words, chest tight. He can't think of a single thing that will change once he's of age. Time will not earn him Father Julius's forgiveness. No amount of years will remove him from beneath Julius's crushing weight, save him from the hot licks of pain delivered.
"And y'know, these Archives were entrusted to you, and you really have been the best person for the job."
There's a "but" coming.
"But… being isolated down here all the time, slaving over paperwork all day every day has to be pretty mentally taxing. I mean, after we talked of course I know it is. And so I was talking with Father Julius and Mother Elise and we all agree: You were meant for greater things, Alastair.”
Alastair’s throat closes up at the mention of Father Julius. He takes a half step back, tucking his arms close to his body. Greater things? He was getting out of The Archives? “What are greater things?” He asks slowly.
Jeremiah turns to really look at Alastair. His eyes crinkle in the corners as they always do and there's a bright, excited shine in them. “How would you like to serve as something other than The Archives' Master?”
It's like a crack in glass. Small and then sudddenly spreading, short snap after short snap. Ice on a lake. Alastair can't find his breath. He's rigid and unmoving. This is it. This is the chance he’s been waiting for. The blessing Father Julius always said would come to him if he worked diligently.
And somehow it feels so wrong. No, not somehow; there is no mystery. He knows exactly what is wrong about it.
Jeremiah doesn't let the silence stretch. He grips Alastair’s hand, leaning towards him face shining and earnest. “Be at my side, Alastair. I know you have it in you. You can work alongside my team and I. You could be one of God’s chosen. We’ll go on missions together, never apart. Just like we’ve always wanted.”
Alastair’s face falls. He shouldn't let himself feel surprised, even though he is. All he’s ever wanted is here right in front of him, offered up to him by his own brother. This should be perfect. Of course, it's not. It’s not because he knows now, what leaving The Archives would mean, what he would become.
He’d be just like Jeremiah. That was something he'd wished for all his youth. But that was a Jeremiah he knew. This man now, who's offering him his freedom, has something in him Alastair wishes didn't exist.
“O-Oh,” he croaks, swallowing thickly and trying to smile. “My goodness. This is so sudden.”
“You’d start your training first, of course, after your coming of age ceremony. Just like I did. Gotta whip you into shape before we send you off into the field.” Jeremiah says with a laugh. He gives Alastair's shoulder a light punch.
Alastair groans through his teeth and laughs thinly to veil the sound.
“You’re not ready for the likes of my team, not yet, anyway,” he teases, distracted, a mirthful, reminiscent look in his eyes. "They'll love you, Alastair."
“Wow. You’ve really got it all planned?” He grips the back of his chair, his knuckles turning white. “We’ll be out in the field… together.” The thick, wet sound of blood dribbling through fingers curls in his ears, just behind him as if it's really there. He knows when he turns he'll see that statue.
“It was my big surprise for you. Had to make this year’s birthday a special one,” Jeremiah says. “I was going to wait until the actual date but… today Julius finally confirmed he’d be beginning your training in December. I just couldn’t resist.”
Alastair’s shoulders are drawn tight and his chest feels heavy. His breaths are short and manual. “Father Julius did… December.” What is he going to do? The light in Jeremiah’s eyes would be delightful in any other context but not right now. No, because Alastair’s knows what he does out there. On those missions.
There's a little pit of furstration that sits deeply in Alastair's gut, buried. How can Jeremiah present this as a gift? How can he make this choice for Alastair, deciding to throw him into the gore and unrighteousness of his world without the slightest bit of remorse. He's happy. He's happy to know Alastair will become a killer.
“Jeremiah, thank you,” is all he can choke out.
His brother seems pulled briefly out of his excitement. “I mean, of course, you can always delay your training. Though I wouldn't recommend it. The earlier the better, I say, and you're already getting a bit of a late start. But if it's something you want to put off, I get it. I know how important these Archives are to you. You do incredible work here.
“I just figured now would be a good time. We would be together way more and you could actually learn more about the world, what it’s like. It would be nice to expand your horizons for once, you know?”
Despite the secrets and half truths behind Jeremiah’s words, Alastair immediately feels a stab of guilt at how quickly his brother deflates. “No,” he says quickly, reaching out to take Jeremiah’s hand. When he touches it, he, for a moment, feels warm and softened just as it always does. Don't. He remembers the painting, red smudges, bodies stacked high like simple paperwork. The remorse lingers but it's joined by the returning disgust like coils around Alastair's throat.
With struggle to keep his words smooth, he continues. “We’d get to work together. We’ve talked about it for so long. It will be wonderful to finally live like you.” The lie burns beneath his tongue as he smiles, his lips stiff.
A broad grin returns to Jeremiah's face “Okay, good." He laughs a little, bouncing his leg as he looks around The Archives. “It'll be such a breath of fresh air for you to finally get out of this basement, huh? You’ve been down here so long you probably forgot what the sun looks like.”
Alastair shakes his head, sick to his stomach. His cheeks hurt with the strain of his false smile. “No. That I remember.” He drops Jeremiah's hand slowly. “The sun. It’s been so long.” A sour taste lingers in his mouth. Jeremiah is giving him the thing he’s always hoped for — a way out. But the hand extended to him is covered in blood and the voice that invites him in tells only lies. How long has he been disguisng himself?
“Oh, and you’re going to love training,” Jeremiah adds, smiling wistfully. “It’s so much fun. And nothing like you would expect. I think my best years were then — of course I met Peter there, too. You’ll find someone. You’ll really come into your own, I’m sure of it.
"That’s really what training’s all about. Making loads of friends, building yourself up, partying…. But don’t tell Father Julius I said the last bit.”
Alastair feels frozen. Jeremiah’s voice is far away and echoing in his ears. He wants to laugh along with and get excited because he has a future outside of this prison now. Heavens, he wants to scream for even wanting it. How can he? Is this a test from God? Surely he’ll be punished for killing. “I’m sure it’ll all be quite overwhelming. I don't know how much partying I’ll do but it does sound tempting. Friends would be nice.”
The casual conversation, the lies, it makes him feel sick.
Jeremiah laughs, literally vibrating with excitement as he bounces around, all smiling and happy. How? “Oh, and of course I’ll visit you as much as I can before you join my squad. Way more than right now, even though I bet you’re gonna be super busy. Maybe I’ll even sneak in and help you train…. Then you’ll definitely be ready for my team.”
Alastair feels a sting behind his eyes and a tightness in his throat as he nods. This can't be real. He's seeing things again. His mind is playing tricks on him. Or maybe he's already being punished by God. Are his transgressions too great? This feels the most true. With Julius's reminders ringing in his ears, he has to believe this is his penalty. “Y-yeah, it’ll be great.” His hands are shaking and his back feels hot with blood beginning to soak through his shirt. He hastily grabs his coat hung over his chair, slipping it on. He may be paranoid but he won't run the risk of Jeremiah seeing. “I can’t wait to be on your team,” he croaks.
Jeremiah smiles. “I’m glad.” He says. “You’ll really get to see what amazing work we're doing."
Alastair closes his eyes and noiselessly gags in his mouth. 'Amazing work.'
“But that means no slacking off, hah.” Jeremiah continues, grinning. “But you're a hard worker, Alastair. One of the most diligent I know. I’m sure you’ll impress all of them. I have full faith in you.”
Alastair can only nod. He thinks if he opens his mouth again he’ll vomit. He can tell Jeremiah what he saw. Maybe Jeremiah will laugh out of shock and tell Alastair that painting wasn’t him and that the church has done no such things and then they could work happily side by side. Maybe he won't even recall a dungeon. He'll tell Alastair he imagined that too. Still, Alastair cannot bring himself to ask. He knows the answer.
“I mean it buddy. You’re going to be great. Father Julius believes it, and so do I. This is what we've wanted. You should be proud of yourself, all your hard work has paid off. You’ve proven to everyone just how trustworthy you are."
Alastair nods slowly, eyes unblinking, his gaze unfocused as he looks at Jeremiah. “You’re right. Thank you, Jeremiah.” The older man is so obviously excited. It has to be good. This is all wrong and Alastair is mistaken. “I’ll do my best.”
"Good, Alastair. I know how much you overthink but once you're out there… all your worries will be gone. You'll be fighting for the best cause there is." Jeremiah's eyes are so warm it makes Alastair's stomach twist.
"I think you'll find it's all really... therapeutic."
obsessed with guarded characters (reluctantly) falling sleep around another character(s), showing how much they trust them to put themselves in a position of absolute vulnerability, unwavering faith that they'll be protected and guarded while they recharge, the submission of being alert unfamiliar and strange in their chest, not used to being safe or away from danger enough to get proper rest, looking years younger when they fall asleep, the other characters fiercely always nearby and keeping the quiet around for them just a little while longer
whumpee who is so used to being hurt that their mind wanders whenever it happens. not dissociation just- thinking about the chores they still have to do. prioritising.
listing the tasks they won't be able to do once whumper is done with them. the ones they can't afford not to do. thinking about the cleanup - they'll have to stay a bit, to cry and whimper and be pathetic for a while ecause that's what whumper expects, but also, that carpet is dead - and them with it - if whumpee doesn't get started NOW.
planning their route: straight to the bathroom to get the products, the sheets into the washing machine and then straight to scrubbing.
fine as long as whumper doesn't decide to stomp on their hand. or to ruin their ankle again.
Let me guess, Hyta died a horrible and painfully death because of his involvement with Kev and so Kev decided friends weren't for him? XD
Of course she did! I don't think this qualifies as spoiler really, it's been hinted in the text and... I mean, is anyone expecting the backstory friend of a living weapon to still be alive? People know tropes!
While that certainly didn't help, Kev didn't exactly decide anything. Leska did for him. No witnesses rule: anyone who might recognize him cannot live. Which is only in part actually practical, mostly an excuse to make sure he's was not going to grow attached to anyone through repeated interaction again :3
How often has Kev interacted with people that like. Aren't (1) a target (2) Leska (3) Leska's vultures (4) Rhuls. Like at all. Has that ever happened before the undercover hospital mission.......
There have been brief interactions, including one of his first murders after spending the night with a man who helped him...
The only one going on for an extended time was his friend Hyta. That lasted a few months :)
✯ “How am I supposed to believe that you love me if you can't respect me?”
✯ “I can’t do this anymore.” “Oh, yeah, it sure if hard for you, lying to me for years. That must have been real stressful for you.”
✯ “Did you ever even love me?” “I did. I… I do. I just can’t stay with you.”
✯ “Now you know why I hesitated to open my heart to you... Everyone I love ends up hurt.” “No. You hurt everyone you love. Don't remove yourself from this.”
✯ “Get out.” “Let me explain, please—” “I said get out!”
✯ “I want you to be happy and if it means I have to leave to allow your to find a better life... I will do that.”
