HELLO YES I WOULD LIKE TO ORDER A DELUXE WHUMP STARTER PACK WITH JOHN PLS. Punch him in the ribs. Kick him in the knee. Beat him with a shoe! Cut him on the face! Tell him 'I hate you.' Make it HURT. And... um... if it's not too much trouble could you add a little epilogue revealing that it was a tickle fight or something silly like that all along because I'm sorry John I'm SO SORRY IT HURT ME JUST TO WRITE THIS OH GOD. But if you don't wanna do it that's totally fine though! 😘
Oh this is VERY fun, thank you! I had a blast writing this! <3
He was turning – mutating. Again.
The moment he’d woken up, it was so bad he already had a damn tail and three huge, clawed fingers and a carapace on his head. The meager clothes he had fallen asleep in, casual wear for moseying around on the ship, were all but in shreds.
John crashed out of bed in a panic, a guttural growl turning into a freakish hiss in his throat as he scrambled to his feet and toward the door. Why had he turned? He was taking the suppressants like they told him— this shouldn’t be happening, it couldn’t be happening.
First he found Rivers in the halls. Padding up behind him, John tried to speak, but all that came out was a wretched growl like something out of hell. Rivers turned, saw him, his eyes went wide— and he punched him. Maybe he had been aiming for his face, but it only came up to his ribs. Probably hurt him more than it hurt John, given his spiked carapace, but Rivers didn’t let it show.
Physically, anyway. John still cringed and recoiled, a decent amount of breath knocked from his lungs, but he still tried again to speak – but it still didn’t work.
“Get away from me!” Rivers shouted, kicking in his direction – it hit him in the knee, hard enough to make him snarl, but still not enough to do any real damage.
Then Rivers turned and ran. He took off down the halls, yelling for help. John ducked his head low and watched him go.
Next, John went to Henry. Henry would always help him – he was his best friend. Even when he couldn’t count on anyone else, for some reason he always knew he could count on Henry.
But when the door to Henry’s quarters slid open, Henry freaked out. Instantly. And of all things, he turned and hit John with a shoe he’d had in his hand. He hit him again and again, like he was trying to ward off some crazed killer. John put up an arm to block all the blows, blinking and giving off some kind of chittering purr instead of actual words.
“God, why do you always come to me!?” Henry shrieked, his voice a cracking mess of terror and hatred, dropping the shoe and retreating deeper into his room. “I hate it, I hate you!”
A horrid, deep, low moan like some giant dying animal filled the room, and it took a second before John realized that was him. He ducked his head even lower than before and turned, tail lashing in distress as he retreated back out into the hall.
Henry had never spoken to him that way before. Even in all their ribbing, even when they argued, even when they were shouting in each other’s faces about whatever, he’d never done anything like that.
In the hall, he found Andrea. But when he came up behind her and tried to speak, she whirled on him like someone ready for combat, a knife in her hand. And she cut him clean across the face, somehow piercing even the carapace – and he cried out, his voice a distorted sound like the roaring wail of a monster that had eaten a human still alive and screaming inside of it.
Then he woke up. Violently.
Jostling awake, he opened his eyes to find himself twisted in his own sweaty sheets. A tiny murring sort of noise alerted him to the presence of Henry’s black cat with her perfect white chest spot, who was in bed with him, her yellow eyes staring in alarm. His face stung a touch from where her claws had caught on his skin.
Slowly sitting up, John noticed the door to his room stood wide open. And Henry was there, dressed in his day-to-day uniform, apparently having barged into John’s room at some point while he was asleep.
“Sheesh, do you always flail around like some tortured movie character?” Henry sniped, snatching up his frightened cat and cradling her in his arms. The cat promptly started purring like a motor. “You scared her half to death. She was just trying to lick your face. If she scratched you it’s your fault.”
John didn’t speak. He swallowed loudly and sat up a little straighter – at least until he bent forward to bury his face in his hands.
“Um,” Henry started, but he hesitated the moment he did, shifting on the bed near him. “It’s not like you to oversleep, Atlas. You know we were supposed to be in a shuttle fifteen minutes ago. I thought you military types were always on time or you get bullwhipped or something.”
“Atlas,” Henry prompted again at length, “are… you okay?”
Finally, running his fingers through his eternally unruly hair of spikes, John sat up and took a deep breath, looking Henry in the face. And there was his best friend, staring at him in concern, curious cat in his arms.
Managing a lopsided hint of a smile, John rasped, “Yeah… Yeah, buddy. I’m fine.”
