Run
The Raid masterlist
Taglist: @scp-1296 @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump
Dax runs as their safehouse is raided.
1.5k
CWs: pet whump, BBU, beating, blood, breakdown, crying, grief, internalised discrimination, electric shock, mentions of torture, minor whumpee (17), institutional whump
“You remember the agreement. So run, pet. That’s an order. You know where to go, don’t stop running until you get there.”
Dax crawls through the basements, crossing under houses, counting the seconds, counting the foundations, one, two, three, four, squinting, shaking with the force of holding back the splitting headaches. It’s dark and cold and dusty and dirty and too much like punishments and their heart pounds in their chest, five, six, seven houses, time to climb up. They brace themself and push upwards, into the abandoned sports hut.
It has to be, it has to be, it has to be the abandoned sports hut. They climb, arms burning, pulling themself out.
Moulding noticeboard, crumbling darts board, overpowering scent of weed. This is the place. They stumble out of it and down the small path with no gate into the back alleys. The moon is blurry but it doesn’t matter, they remember the route, they’re good at remembering routes.
Left, right, down an alley, cross the street, down ano–
Silhouettes loom out of the darkness, against the dim streetlights. They skid to a halt. They recognise the stances, the shapes of elongated sticks at their sides.
Handlers.
They close ranks, close in, and Dax doesn’t stop to wonder how they found them, can’t, doesn’t have time. They spin round and kick, punch, sticky blood, tacky, not running so fresh. Someone grabs them from behind, attempting a headlock, and they smash their head back, hearing a groan, biting someone else’s arm as it comes close, kneeing another in the groin. No more hands, no more pain, they slip away, not quite dodging a wild swing from a shock baton but it’s okay, it’s okay, it was barely a shock and they limp off, gritting their teeth against the faint aftershocks, running the wrong way, they’ll go round in a square, they know the area, they can do this.
This is why Miss Penelope insisted on self-defence classes for everyone. They wonder if all the exits were covered, if anyone else– but no, no, can’t think about that now, have to keep running, run run run, run rabbit run and even their heart is like one.
Nonsensical brain. What does that even mean? This is why pets don’t think.
They turn another corner and they’re back on route, back on schedule, back alleys, broken glass and pebbles and spiky plants cutting, embedding, unyielding against their skin. They hadn’t even thought to put shoes on. A fox, sprawled on the path in front of them, takes fright at the sight of them, and Dax wishes they could flee so easily.
They slip into the narrowest alleyway they’ve yet been through, just a cutaway between misshapen back gardens really, and one house, two, three, four, they freeze and listen and look and there’s nowhere to hide, they’d hear anyone, there’s no pursuit. They feel around for the loose fence panel Penelope swore was here, she promised, she promised, if she’s been captured or killed for no reason whatsoever–
The fence panel swings and Dax catches it, crawls through, replaces it carefully. They rock back on their haunches and just sit for a second, breathing hard. They feel like hell, and they must look it, too.
That wasn’t the handlers’ blood, tacky against their shirts and arms. Too old, not fresh, not new wounds still bleeding like they would’ve been to get that. Whose was it? Whose was it?
Who have they lost? Who’s dead, captured, who’s gone? They’ve done the drills, listened to the talks, they know people don’t always survive raids, and certainly not intact.
They’re never going to see most of those people again, are they?
They let themself sob, once, twice, before pushing themself to their feet. They can't let themself fall apart, not now, not yet, not ever.
They stumble to the back door, not allowing themself to hesitate. They don't know what this house will be like. Miss Penelope trusts it, but she's a person, not a pet. Could be different. But it's better than handlers.
They did not go through all of that just to be recaptured.
The back door is closed, probably locked, the house dark. They crumble, then, collapsing to the patio, sobbing. Of course they don't know, there was no time to get the word out, no warning. They have nowhere to go.
And they're still clad in their bonnet, nightgown and shorts.
Oh god. Oh god, there's handler between their teeth. They gag, poking, prodding, tugging, freeing, the bite must've been stronger than they thought to get a chunk of flesh but they spit it out as far as it'll go. There's no-one to help them anymore, no-one to hold them or fetch them a glass of squash to rinse the taste out.
They break.
They shouldn't. They can't afford it. But they can't help it. Their home is gone, the first one they can remember, ripped apart, beaten and torn asunder, destroyed like everything WRU touches.
Esha was about to move out, they had their leaving celebration last night. Tonight? Is it past midnight yet? They're not sure, and even if they had a clock they couldn't read it. Graham was ready to go on his first trip out of the house, to the supermarket with Miss Penelope, he had it all planned out and everything. Mercy had just picked a name. Miss Penelope was so hopeful about getting a grant that would cover most of the next year's expenses.
They were going to run a safehouse. They were going to. But they don't know if they can anymore. Romantics don't run safehouses. They're not capable and it isn't safe and what if they assault the residents?
They don't know if anyone’s going to do any of those things ever again. They don't know if anyone's even still alive, if they're dead or worse. If WRU caught them, hurt them, turned them back into pets or chewtoys or bait or organ donors or experimentation or–
Mercy’s owner had hunted her with dogs, punished her with a barbed wire collar, carved his name into her stomach. What if he gets her back?
Dax hopes she's free. Prays she's free. But deep down they don't think they'll ever know. Miss Penelope taught them all different routes to different houses, for safety. It makes sense, but now they've lost everything but the clothes on their back and the blood splattered over them.
Miss Penelope said, she promised, that this was the safest place she knew for Romantics. But is it safe?
Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter, they're here, they're free, it's not WRU, doesn't matter what it's like.
They stuff their sleeve into their mouth, muffling their hiccups and cries. Surely they'll run out of tears soon.
Their thoughts spread, scatter, dance, the same routine over and over, can't stop thinking, can't stop remembering, can't stop crying even when the tears run dry, heart so sore they wouldn't be surprised if they were dying.
Time passes.
Before they really notice, they're getting warmer, and the night wasn't cold to begin with. They can see the red veins and skin of their eyelids, the heat on their face, and they force their tear-encrusted eyes open.
When did they turn to face the sun?
West… west-facing house?
They wipe a shaking, bloody arm across their face. It's tacky and crusty, not theirs.
It must've come from one of the handlers. Is it theirs? Esha’s? Graham’s? Mercy’s? Miss Penelope’s?
They push themself to stand on trembling legs. The house might be waking soon. They don't want to miss it.
Sure enough, the inside kitchen door opens and a girl enters, graceful, delicate but certain gait of a Romantic (rescue? They pray for that) doing her job. Coffee, frying pan, brace herself over the sink.
She doesn't look injured, just tired. That's something. Even if this place isn't good to them at least it doesn't look torturous, like Mercy’s.
The girl raises her head and her haunted, red-rimmed eyes lock with Dax’s through the window.
Her eyes widen.
She hurries to the door, opening it. Dax steps back as it's pushed outward.
“Do you… do you need help?” Dax nods and the girl ushers them inside. “Ms Alix isn't awake yet but… you can come in anyway. I don't have a name yet. Do you?”
Okay. Okay, this sounds like a rescue. They can't be entirely sure yet but they don't think anywhere but a safehouse would let their pets take in runaways.
Dax nods again, matching the girl’s whisper. “Dax.”
“Hello. Sit. Drink.”
Dax sits on the floor automatically, like they haven't spent months learning to sit on furniture. They take the open bottle of water the girl hands them and gulp down half the bottle in one go. They know they shouldn't, they need to save some for when they're not allowed any more, but it's been so long since they drank anything.
She slides down onto the floor opposite Dax.
“Can I check you over? You’re covered in blood.”
They look up at the other rescue properly, tears welling all over again.
“It’s– it’s not my blood. And it's all I have left of them.”
