Whumper inherits a Whumpee who’s had several handlers before. He himself, though, he’s not like the others. Not like the others who commit needless violent atrocities against the Whumpees, rendering them useless.
Whumper has successfully rehabilitated his captive. They’re finally speaking, giving him insider info that Whumper can use in his work.
Except the information Whumpee has been feeding Whumpee is lies. Cleverly crafted, perfect lies. Whumper falls for it. Acts on it. Loses men. Looks like a fool. He’s humiliated.
Someone has to pay for this. Whumpee must pay for this.
He enters Whumpee’s cell without even really thinking about it. Whumpee flinches, wide-eyed, recognizing the rage on his face, the way he’s holding himself, the tightness of his jaw. That recognition only makes him madder.
And then his hands are on Whumpee’s collar, yanking them up by it, out of their bed, and before he can really think he’s slammed them against the wall. His fist connects with their face, again and again. His shouting punctuates each hit.
Did you think this was funny?
Do you know what you’ve done?
He only stops when he can no longer tell if the blood on his knuckles is from Whumpee or him. He lets go, and they crumple to the floor. Under his shadow they cower, arms shielding themselves, whimpering.
For reasons he can’t explain, their pathetic-ness only enrages him more. So he begins to kick. And kick. Chest, face, stomach. Whumpee gasps, coughs, struggles for breath. He can barely hear it over the roaring in his ears. Eventually though, he tires. Breathing hard, he takes a step back.
He thought it would make him feel better, but seeing Whumpee in this state isn’t as satisfying as he thought it would be. What he really wanted was to hear them apologize, beg him to stop. But they haven’t even spoken. A product of the treatment by their last whumpers, probably, where begging was futile and mocked. But still. Why doesn’t Whumpee know this is what he wants? If they’re so smart?
He shakes his head. Crouches. Grabs Whumpee’s wrist. And then he breaks a finger. They shriek, but quiet back into whimpering again, curling up tighter.
He takes another finger. “You want me to stop?”
Whumpee’s lip trembles. They give a tiny nod.
“Then fucking apologize.”
Whumpee is still hyperventilating, and doesn’t immediately respond. Some more tension on their middle finger, though, and desperate words flow out of Whumpee.
Please, don’t, they sob between gasps. I won’t—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t do this again, please.
He breaks another finger. The look of betrayal on Whumpee’s face almost surprises him. He wants to yell at them again for being so stupid. They’re not being sincere. He wants a sincere apology. Is it so hard to do just that?
They blubber on some more, and Whumper gives up on the apology. A liar won’t be sincere anyways. Hopefully this will teach them a lesson. See? He knows when to stop.
By that point the burning rage he felt has cooled, widening his perception of things. He lets go of their hand and steps back, but Whumpee doesn’t move. They’re still hyperventilating. Except, the more he listens, the less it sounds like panic. Well, yes, there’s panic there, but this is more… mechanical. Every time they inhale, they stop early, wince, try again. Every so often they’ll take a deeper breath, stiffen, and then whimper. He notices the hand draped over their chest was both shielding themselves and also bracing against something painful.
He doesn’t bother regretting his actions, he doesn’t bother thinking, what have I done? He stares at Whumpee and thinks.
Medicine was not something he bothered to learn. He’d hired his own doctor to tend to his whumpees long ago. Paid in cash, he asked no questions. Was it worth summoning him now?
Whumper kneels back down to Whumpee. Puts a hand on their shoulder. Shakes. “Stop breathing like that. Get up.”
He attempts to pull Whumpee up, but this time, they’re a complete dead weight. Fine. Be that way. He’s not going to pick a grown adult up off the floor.
“Get up, or I’ll bring the doctor.”
Nothing. No response. Not even a peep.
He turns his back to leave, and they don’t protest.
