Desensitized (Chapter One)
Content: BBU/Institutionalized Slavery, Living Weapon Whump, Conditioning, Captivity, Soldier Whumpee, Military Whump, Defiant Whumpee, Carewhumper (Maybe), Team Dynamics
CWs: Noncon Body Modifications, Slavery, Dehumanization, Gun Violence, Blood, Broken Bones, TBI/Head Trauma, Opioid Painkillers, Light Gagging
Masterlist: Will go here
Words: 3097
Apathetic
From the outside the building appeared warehouse-like in nature, a great industrial block that towers over the surrounding storefronts and expansive blacktop parking lots. Then there’s the lettering plastered high above the entrance. One Man’s Army.
Piers grimaced at the sight of busy cars populating the asphalt. From armored vehicles to family six-seaters, people walked in and out with excited smiles or satisfied grins. Few were the solemn faces. Piers felt exposed just standing by his car at a place like this.
He didn’t have a choice. The boss demanded it, and in all honest he were correct in the grand scheme of things. It would only be a matter of time until Piers or his team ran into an Embattled themselves.
Close calls of the past made it all the more important. Seeing how quick some of those things can run… Or how easy an entire team of trained mercenaries can become red sludge… Piers shuddered, finally closing his driver side door.
The cash felt heavy inside the rucksack on his back. He kept reminding himself that this was for the sake of everyone’s safety, and he only needed one. Whatever appeases the boss he guessed. Just pick one and you can leave this place A.S.A.P.
Retro video games awaited him back at base. He’ll hurry through this meticulous process, then speed his way out of town. Thinking about those pixelated maps didn’t smother the building guilt though.
Frigid air washed over him as the sliding doors stuttered open. Piers was met with a vast network of rooms, easy to access and even easier to keep watch on, reminding him of that old prison down south. Steel sets of stairs climbed up to various floors. Walls of thick glass separated most cells instead of iron bars. Near the back he spied a few rooms that held great and heavy doors, the only window for interested buyers being the slim rectangular of glass to spy through them.
Most of the ground floor was cluttered by cases of weaponry, armor, and medical equipment. Employees pranced around in various levels of tactical gear. They approached their potential customers with smug expressions, and eager gestures.
“Well well, don’t you look like an experienced man.” An older middle aged individual, hidden behind a military helmet and pair of sunglasses, nearly pounced Piers. “Whatcha looking for then? We’ve assortments of embattled here- The best around as you should know.”
Piercing through the brown tint of his sunglasses, an eager gaze fixated on the tattoos lining Piers’ upper arms. Piers attempted to shut all unnecessary questions down.
“I’m only buying to shut the ol’ boss up. Nothing fancy- And nothing unpredictable.”
Expectant glares located onto him. He heard the man give a low scoff, a semblance of a shit-eating grin pressing against the slick fabric the balaclava underneath the helm.
“Anything for Moors’ boy. C’mon! We’ll find something that suits your needs. Trust me we got something for everybody.” Flamboyant gestures directed Piers to follow. He heaved a sigh, scraping his boots against the entry mat, reluctantly starting after the salesman.
Immediately the man brought Piers up to the second floor. Doing his best to impress him, the employee rambled on explaining.
“I think you’ll find our embattled in sector H up to your standards. They’re of professional expectations; good on battlefields, undercover jobs, and going up against the well prepared enemy- Here’s one of our group containers. They make good watch buddies, get along good with other embattled and don’t require much stimulation. Commonly referred to as Couplets as most buy these guys in a pair or greater.”
On the other side of the glass sat a bunch of bored looking men, armored in moderate gear. Their “container” wasn’t big enough to accommodate the amount crammed into the room.
Most sat on the floor staring into the ceiling, walls, or one-sided glass. A few metal benches found every free spot occupied by a resting Couplet. In the back two mattresses transformed into a dogpile, as they fought for comfortable space to sleep.
The man continued, “Don’t worry about complaints, distracted attention spans, or banter. These guys are far less chatty than their cheaper counterparts.”
Piers stared at the blank stare on a particular sunken eyed Couplet, his head started to bow as the will to stay awake waned. After an annoyed look to the salesman, that was enough for them to move onto the next.
“Sharpshooters. They come in available in all genders.”
There was a string of thin but lengthy cells, similar to hallways, that housed restless embattled. Each anticipated work, practicing with daggers that had grown dull, foam targets that were long since torn to shreds.
One in particular stretched as if she could guess that costumers had moved their sights onto her. She plucked a blade out from underneath her bed, not a hesitation passing by as she succeed the bullseye.
“They are enthusiasts for the job. Crossbows, sniper rifles, pistols, whatever you give them, they’ll show off their precision-”
Piers already begun to walk away, shaking his head. The salesman hustled after him. He advised, “Alrighty sir, I’ll let you lead the way then.”
Each group and subject on sale proved more and more unworth it. He analyzed the hot headed Juggernauts, the efficient but unstable Killmongers, the way too eager Jackpots. Passing by the string of isolated embattled, selling the boss’ case to Piers was dwindling.
Each were either returned for their aggression, unpolished edges, or locked up for an inability to co-exists with the non-commanding staff. In one particular concrete chamber sat a juggernaut that refused to break from a set of push-ups. Piers wondered what kinds lives these people lived before becoming these… things.
“Here. Let’s go to the third floor. They’re expensive, can have quite the harsh modifications, but are worth every penny.”
He wasn’t lying about the mods. These embattled fashioned cybernetic upgrades. Ears were decorated by enhanced hearing implants. Promised technological feats were found in thin metallic markings, and stark ink.
Passing by a wall of glass that served a vibrant warning label, Piers got a knowing wink from the subject inside, the mechanical bladed imp tail attached to them winding in anticipation. He could’ve swore the glass was always one-sided.
“How about a Grand Medic? We have a few unique features of them, noted by these symbols here.” The man tapped at a key plastered to the viewing glass.
Modifications guaranteed aspects such as dedicated caretaking, duel-service, multilingual, familial devotion, intense reaction times, and even fearlessness.
The third floor cells were far more expensive, spacious, and… clean. Bunk beds provided enough opportunities to snooze for less crowded containment of extensively conditioned embattled. They had tables, entertainment in the form of puzzle trinkets, and also pillows.
The Grand Medics looked healthy and more right behind the eyes than most Piers had seen today. Their equipment was heavy duty, and each wore a different accent color, large patches on their arms telling onlookers what to expect.
Slips attached described factoids and notes on their behavior, specialties, and feats. They have names?! Piers admitted that they sure do look expensive.
Given no choice, he asked the salesman, “What’s the difference between the common medic and a grand?”
“Grand Medics are the best of both worlds. They can be your avid defender, skilled soldier, observant comrade, and best of all: a field surgeon if push comes to shove. Each are tested for high intelligence when selected to be Grand Medics. Their training is complex, ruthless, and especially strict. Very few make it to this level. We’ve never had a complaint after purchase from these guys though.”
“But I will tell you.” He continued, pointing back to the slips, “They can have some quirks that wealthy buyers might not be all intrigued by.”
Piers took his time reading and locating the corresponding embattled...
Green; Macarius: Endurable, Devout, Advanced Memory, Sharpshooter, Modified Sight.
Languages: English, Portuguese, Spanish, Italian, French, and German.
Quirks: Melancholic. Compulsive. Hungering.
What does that mean? You know what I don’t want to know. Macarius refused to face the viewing glass, hunched over as if trying to hide something. Very obviously his hands cupped a granola bar that he was attempting to choke down...
Blue; Paulinus: Devout, Modified Hearing, Advanced Athleticism, Substance Resistance, Climate Adaptive.
Languages: English, Russian, Ukrainian, Kazakh, and Greek.
Quirks: High Maintenance, Advanced Sweet Tooth, Tactile.
Sweet tooth? It’s got to be bad if they enable it here. Paulinus chewed a large wad of gum. He tapped his foot to the beat of a song that no one else could hear...
Red; Constantine: Advanced Athleticism, Climate Adaptive, Unbothered, Specialized Modification - Medical, Modified Olfactory, Field Practiced.
Languages: English, MSA, ASL, Gulf Arabic, Levantine Arabic, Tagalog, and Spanish.
Quirks: Quiet. Obsessive. Apathetic. Antisocial.
Quiet, I like that. Constantine fidgeted with a fifteen sided puzzle cube. He twisted and turned the almost flimsy seeming contraption, suddenly coming out with a checkered pattern...
Gold: Valentin: Devout, Specialized Modification - Medical, Endurable, Field Practiced, Modified Hearing.
Languages: English, Spanish, French, Dutch, Swedish, and German.
Quirks: Obsessive. Aggressive. (Someone scribbled with a pencil Yandere next to the last word.)
Yeah… No. Valentin pressed a bored fist to the side of his jaw. He seemed to be watching something unfold in the imaginary stage set against the white walls...
“Any pique your interest?” The salesman smiled as if he knew he secured Piers, and there was no going back.
“How much is the red one?”
Returning to his car Piers carried one much lighter rucksack. His parents shunned the embattlement institutions, back when they turned murderers into murderers for hire. To this day he always found their existence evidence of humanity’s failing.
He mulled the entire car ride back to base, entering the establishment with his head hung low. His team and boss greeted him in the kitchen. The deep conversation they were carrying dispersed at the sound of the door clicking. They exchanged serious expressions in return of goody-goody ones.
“What’s the verdict? Hope you got us a reliable little friend.” An impossibly self-satisfied smirk beamed from the boss. He invited the others to listen closely. This would be their new team member and permanent assistant.
“A grand medic. Goes by the name Constantine. The guy at the warehouse said we’re happy to renamed him if we want though.”
“That sounds like a fitting name already.” One of his team mates piped up, leaning their chair back just enough to keep it from toppling over. He followed up, “When do we get to meet Mr. Cons-tan-tine?”
“Sunday.” Piers tossed thick packet of the embattled’s papers on the dining table. There was the sparkle of tears in his eyes, but his managed to hide it from them. He gave an awkward shrug, “There’s everything about him since you guys are so curious. I’m going to bed.”
As he left the group behind, the bossed called after him, “Chin up mate. You’ll be grateful during your next mission. Trust me.”
Haven long forgotten about the video games, Piers marched straight to his bed, plopping over and rolling around in his excessive blanket collection, as if the soft texture could wash away the tingling sensation of sins crawling across his skin.
He shuddered every time his mind wandered back to those barren cells. No one deserved… that. This Constantine fellow could be a serial killer in a past life, or a young boy who vanished from home decades ago.
Did it matter anymore? The rules for what determines if someone can be transformed into an embattled have been getting looser and looser. Piers wondered if he were imprisoned nowadays would he end up in the same boat, with greedy eyes secretly observing him. They’re inhuman now. He lied to himself.
Piers thrashed around until a sleeping position felt comfortable enough, succumbing to his depression fueled exhaustion. When he awoke, late morning sun highlight the dusty air of his bedroom, it was as if an audience focused on him.
He turned towards the paranoid sensation. A reactive scream emitted from him at the armored man standing in his doorway. He bumped himself up against the wall, still trying to scoot backwards for a few moments even as his shock started dying out.
The fear was replaced by red-faced anger. He shouted, “Marin!”, confident he knew who allowed this.
Snickering echoed down the hall, Marin’s voice amongst the hushed chattering. Constantine reacted to none of it. His white armor was more expensive than what he sat around in, still complimented by strays of vibrant red.
Now up so close he looked stronger than remembered, the definitions of his muscles revealing only in the less protective aspects of his gear. His eyes were visible too. Gray, unamused, yet engaged; they stared as if assigned to this task.
Marin cheerily entered Piers’ line of sight, leaning against the sturdy Constantine. He teased, “You’ve got good taste. The boss is impressed with Constantine, and I quite like him.”
“How long has he been watching me?”
“Oh don’t worry.” He gave a good few pats to Constantine’s shoulder, “His presence disturbed you only after a few minutes.”
Frustrated, Piers unraveled himself from bed, pushing past them both. He located the others standing by. With an accusatory point, he lectured, “Constantine is not a toy. Stop playing around, and keep that thing away from me outside of working hours.”
He stomped off, still feeling Constantine’s glare snapped onto him, following him down the hall. Hopefully the watching people while they sleep thing was some stupid gimmick command. Surely, they would’ve noted that down in the quirks at the warehouse. Outside- Piers just needed his fresh air time.
Outdoors, the sunlight was unwavering. The horizon wriggled uncomfortably underneath the aggressive heat. He glanced up too much catching a shot of blinding light to the eyes. What a summer. He took solace that it wasn’t freezing cold. Knowing what waltzed around the base disturbed more than expected by even the boss, and now the unforgiving sun was a positive notion in his day.
That light…
...
Ringing. That’s all that remained in Piers’ senses after the explosion, his body scraping against the rocky earth as if he brittle a tumbleweed caught in the wind.
The pain followed next, stinging and fresh. It enveloped his elbows, his writhing legs. And something hit him. At first he couldn’t feel or understand what it was. His head smacked against the ground too many times to come up with an idea of where he was and what surrounded him. Maybe it were a small rock or a-
He hissed, wincing and curling on himself. His chest shuddered at the sharp pain building within him. Breathing spurred into a wheezing-then-coughing fit, making it worse.
Somewhere the brutal sound of cracking raised up over the diluted ringing. Instantly, he understood that it didn’t originate from the chaotic world engulfing him. Frantic clawing at his chest raised his growing collection of questions.
Piers fell back over, his dizzied head swinging around the sky and ground in a vertigo induced display. He felt the shockwave of a more distance explosion. Familiar voices shouted, drowned by pops of gunfire.
“Cover me. I’m reloading.”
“Where’s Marin?”
“I’m hit. Fuck I think I’m hit.”
Looking down at his hands, Piers discovered them slick with blood. One by one the shooting halted. Next he understood, he was being manhandled, spun around, and a bright light was forced into his face. It swapped to his other eye. As the glaring luminance disappeared, Constantine’s red and white helmet faded into view. His stern irises shifted left and right.
“What the hell!”
Piers recognized that he didn’t like him, trying to free himself from the embattled’s grasp. The medic dragged him back into place. He shoved a warning pointed index finger in Piers’ face.
In a hurry Constantine pried off Piers’ bulletproof vest, a few of its shattered pieces breaking off. The open air stung the bleeding wound, the blood spurting as labored breathing flexed his chest in and out.
To the entire team’s horror, Constantine lowered his face to an almost kissing distance with Piers’ ribcage, sniffing in the iron-ridden scent of blood. Somehow that gave the medic enough knowledge to start rummaging around in the bag hanging off the side of his hip.
He parted the wound open a little more using surgical tools, ignoring how Piers clawed at his arms and begged for rescue. Bringing a magnet to the opening, he waved it about until a shard of metal ejected itself from the bloody slurry.
“Let go of me.” Piers cried, his ears ringing again despite the lack of new explosions. He tried to kick Constantine away.
Limping up to the scene, Marin’s face scrunched up with disgusted sympathy. He loomed over the two. Finally he scrounged up the courage to intrude, and asked, “Is he going to be okay?”
Without glancing away from his work, the embattled shook a small spray bottle, the solution inside sloshing and bubbling. He responded robotically, “Sure.”
“Sure?! Tell me it straight-”
“He has a TBI, a fractured rib, and a shrapnel wound.”
Piers continued to struggle against Constantine’s grip, as he sprayed the fluid inside the wound via generous washing. As if frustrated by squirming, Constantine’s glare begun to lift from the injury, his right eye twitching. Growing worried for Piers, Marin strained to a sit. He pounced on top of his colleague. There was a scramble to get a hold of his arms, but eventually successful, Constantine immediately refocused.
Packing the bleeding opening came next. A cloth was passed around before finding its way between Piers’ gritted teeth. He hissed muffled cries, his muscles straining in his team mate’s hands. Constantine dug his finger into the sliced skin, drawing gauze alongside it.
Much to the dismay of the watching team Piers freed one arm. He latched one hand onto the side of Constantine’s face, making incoherent claims about torture.
For a split-second they all assumed that Constantine was going for Piers’ throat, instead the embattled cupped his hands on the sides of Piers’ face.
He demeaned, “I. Am. Saving. Your. Life.”
Piers released a defeated noise, allowing Constantine to wrap up his chest. A sharp pinch in the unscathed sections of his chest turned the whole world heavy, his eyelids fluttering, warmth coating over him.
He watched the empty morphine injection pass through Constantine’s gloved fingers. Before falling into darkness he swore those gray eyes smiled at him, drinking up his helplessness.