Panic training. Induce very stressful situations like. Trapped and tied up in a room on fire. The situations are controlled to not allow them to die and theyre told that. They have to stay calm. Maybe theres a heart monitor and if its even enough they are allowed out. Something fucked up like that
Escape rooms also ☝️ on a similar vein to the previous one. They gotta know how to get out of restraints
Pain/hunger/fatigue endurance. Make them pass tests while under poor conditions. They need to be able to work even when not in an optimal state.
"Hunger training". Starve them whenever they act even the slightest bit ungrateful or hesitant about the food given (those disgusting rations) until they are ready to beg for even the most disgusting dog food 👍
More about the stress training actually. Interrogations. Get them used to these settings and use intimidating tactics to train them to hold firm under these situations. If they ever captured (it happens) or someone wants to use tricks to get in their head they are already prepared
Fast first aid. Set a ticking clock, make them take care of injuries. All weapons recieve some basic medical care (its Very useful) but like. We can add some stress factor too. They most able they are to do it silently and quickly during a stealth mission, the better.
Hi. The drabble I promised u_u Like and subscribe for more espada extras
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CWs: Noncon/child sexual assault (<- explicit but not graphic), teen whumpee, living weapon whumpee, implied past noncon, compliant whumpee, touch-averse whumpee, abuse apologia (on whumpee's part; you know how she is)
“Espada,” she said, voice as sweet as honey. The tone ought to have put it at ease. “Would you come over here?”
Espa did. The handler—Ms. Júlia, who was usually assigned to headquarters work but was on special leave and in need of a bodyguard—had not moved from under her sheets ever since it arrived. Her dirt-brown hair cascaded around her like a water spill. The bed was wrinkled all over from her moving and creasing over the bedding. They thought they could hear her crying, before, but now, a little smile played on her lips. Espa’s expression didn’t change. She ordered, sing-song, “Bring me water?”
Espa did. There was a clay filter downstairs, but they didn’t go there. This inn, unoccupied but for them right now, was the Dove’s; no dingy motel with unwilling servants, no trying to deal with them with the only handler ridden to bed for unknown reasons and the only weapon fixed to her room to attend to her. There was a little frigobar here upstairs, with chilly bottles refilled every now and then by someone. The workers—more surely loyal—weren’t allowed to enter the room. This place was as safe as it could get, so it had found itself wondering why; the weapon could only assume it was paranoia.
On whose part? The headquarters’? The handler’s? They weren’t sure.
“Ma’am,” it offered, giving her the drink. Her hands weren’t trembling, but it had a thought they wanted to be, so the cups were all metal. No brittle materials. The weapon, if it had been more curious, would’ve liked to know what had gotten her so... indisposed. Ms. Júlia’s white skin was unmarred. Unmarred, to the extent it could see. Her body had been fully hidden under a long robe that showed not even the neckline for the entire day, which was unusual for her, as far as it could tell, and she didn’t seem to be ill. Not ordinarily ill at least. But they wouldn’t know. They had gotten the spine to ask prior, out of some desire to be sure, if it didn’t need to give her any meds. Espa always messed those up; the thought of getting a dosage or an interval wrong and murdering a handler had not been brief on their head.
But there was nothing. She’d made them tell one of the housekeepers to go down to the drugstore and bring her something for a headache, but that’d been it.
As it was now, Ms. Júlia took the glass from its hands with a soft thank you, and raised it to her lips. Espa watched as the liquid made its way down her throat in thick gulps, bobbing the soft flesh of her neck, and she asked for a refill. They refilled it. The handler sighed, somewhat wearily, cupped her head again, and placed the cup on the bedside table. She didn’t finish it.
It hadn’t been told to fuck off to its corner, and it had a strange feeling she wasn’t done yet, so it stayed there. This close, by the bed, the weapon could see the slight eyebags shaping up like bruises under her eyes, the uneasy lines on her posture. It truly had been a while since it’d last run into her. They remembered her being more composed.
Espa didn’t adore Ms. Júlia, per se; she was far from being like its favorite handler, with his deep warm laugh and steady moods and easy treats, but if it had to make a tier, she wasn’t very bad either. They could even say they liked her. She was somewhat... affectionate. It wasn’t too far away an ambition to keep her proud of you. Her punishments hurt, as they should, but they weren’t so often. There was something exquisitely effective about them: She would tell you, plain and clear, what you had done wrong, give you a slap to the wrist and then drag you down the basements to tie you up while carrying a knife or two and making you repeat back what you should do to improve. She had a way of keeping your body twisted so you could neither get away nor relax. It hurt too much to. They’d gotten, on a couple occasions, nightmares with her face. But it wasn’t anything too awful. They had been looking up to this assignment, really: She was a reasonable person you could trust in to lead you. She only raised her voice when she was actually very pissed, and it felt nearly safe to be under her gaze.
Which was probably why, when she said, in that weakened state and with such a cotton-candy voice, “Will you do me a favor, Espada?” it hadn’t looked for clarification with a standard, ma’am?
It had just said yes.
Ms. Júlia had taken in a breath then, as if bracing herself for something. They’d have filed it away, observed with time if they were right, but then it all got fuzzy from down there. They wouldn’t be able to tell.
Her favor had been to go downstairs and bring her food. They were reluctant to leave her chambers alone, after so long standing there on watch—perhaps, they thought, that odd paranoia had rubbed off on them—but she had ordered so, so they went.
It was a warm bowl of soup that smelled like cassava and was tenderly poured into a lovely mug. As the innkeeper in the kitchen gave it a small spoon to go with it, he gave it a sad smile and asked if it wanted some. It left them feeling weird, wrong, and they just told him they weren’t allowed. He had let out a resigned sigh, as if he’d already expected it, and told them to keep up the good work.
It was silly, and it was doing mostly nothing, but it liked hearing that bit.
Ms. Júlia had sat up on her bed with her toes teasing the floor when they entered, closing back the door behind them. The room was mostly plunged into darkness. There was a window, a large one and see-through, but the handler had told them to close shut the blinds only a few hours after they’d arrived so she could try to take a nap. There were books on the tables, and a large TV on the wall, ready to blink on into entertainment, and board games whose names Espa couldn’t read, but Júlia had touched none of them so far. She’d just slept through the better part of morning, and tossed around in her sheets, and cried a little in her sleep, and then woken up, and the blinds had remained closed. Now a pleasant, dim light came through them, bathing the bedroom into a soft glow. They could get behind the choice. They were not so opaque, though firm and heavy. Through them, the glow of the sun came through—but the worst of it couldn’t reach them indoors. If it had to take the guess, neither could the eyes of onlookers outside.
“Oh, darling, thank you,” she said at their appearance, still in that gentle voice. It was weird, and odd, like the man downstairs asking them if they wanted a secret bite of the food, but it didn’t comment. She was also being generally weird. They supposed they just had to let it pass. “Bring it to me. Here, here. Yes, like that. Is it chicken, do you know?”
Espa did not know. “Apologies, ma’am. I can’t tell.”
She smiled. “That’s alright. Of course you wouldn’t.” They stood, hand outstretched to offer her the warm mug, but she didn’t take it just yet. She wasn’t looking at them. “Aren’t you a good girl, Espada?”
Something about the praise, out of the blue, made its stomach turn. It blinked. “Thank you, ma’am.”
The broth in its hands smelled good. Too good. It hoped she’d eat it all before it turned cold. Surely this would lift her bluey moods. But she said nothing, for a while, so neither did they, and silence filled the little dim chambers. Her fingers clenched by the bed. The sheets caved to wrinkles under her hands.
“Give it to me,” she ordered in a whisper. Espa did. They held the cup in one hand, brought it over to her awaiting grip. She made a motion to hold it, wrapped her fingers around the wing, and so Espa let go. There was a split second in which they might’ve wished they hadn’t. Ms. Júlia’s fingers slipped, the mug untethered, and between one heartbeat and the next, all of its contents had spilled onto the floor.
Oh.
The handler stared at the disaster, taking it in without so much as a comment. Espa’s hand twitched over nothing, the warm broth spreading around their feet. The handler, at last, sighed and shook her head. “Oh, Espa, Espa.”
It opened its mouth. Closed it. They thought, shit. It hadn’t meant to. They opened their mouth again, and said, “Sorry. I’m sorry.”
“Are you really?” Her smile still had that pitiful edge to it, a sad twinkle to her hazel eyes. Espa bit its lip, debating whether to call someone to clean it or to shove its hands on the floor by themselves. The latter. “No, no. Don’t bend down. Leave it there,” she said, as soon as their legs made motion to crouch. Espa froze in place. The handler eyed them up and down, not so pleased.
It felt frustration bubbling up in its stomach, along with a wave of cold. Disappointment. They had been doing well. And why with something so simple? “I’m sorry.”
“You are,” she agreed, a mild, pensive expression taking over her face. It was still smooth. Soft. “Strip off your shirt.”
Espa’s sigh was internal, more aimed at themself. They didn’t bother with a yes, ma’am before sliding the turtleneck fluidly over their shoulders, folding it up neatly in the same motion. Its head bowed slightly to her, shoed feet stepping over the ruined soup. Presenting. She did nothing with the offer. Just patted down the mattress beside her. “Put it here.”
Espa did. It awaited, uneasy.
Her smile was gone.
“Strip off your shoes too. And give me that bandana.”
Espa pursed its lips, though it didn’t hesitate. It was a shame, really. They’d been doing well so far. They ignored the stickiness meeting the soles of their feet. At least, they recalled, there would be still more at the kitchen.
Fingers trailing over the blue stripe of fabric they’d just untied, eyes glued to her lap, Ms. Júlia spoke: “Take off your pants, too.”
Its lips went bitten. Espa did. Folded them over their arms. Standing before her, nearly bare, it offered them to the handler. It silently breathed in.
Instead of taking them, she took their arm.
The weapon’s mind blanked for a split second, but they were quick to readjust. They fell limp on her grip as she pulled them closer, close enough for an easy slap, and the trousers fell to the ruined floor. It kept its gaze down, somewhat nervous now. Yes, her punishments indeed had a way of being exquisitely effective. It didn’t like being naked. It could feel her eyes boring onto the top of its head, bowed low. She fought the urge to flinch under it. Ms. Júlia’s fingers travelled, shy, and landed on the tip of her chin.
She tilted their face up.
“Are you sorry?”
It reluctantly locked its eyes on her. It could take a cue when it was given. This was embarrassing. It really wished it hadn’t let it drop. “Yes, ma’am.”
Her other hand, resting on her side, came over to join the first, brushing over its skin to hold its face. The fingertips soon grew bored and lowered down to cup their shoulder instead. “Sit here.”
Ma’am? Espa kept silent. It sat. Ms. Júlia turned to them, face cold and scrutinizing, neutral, soft, undecipherable, and Espa sat. She was half a head taller than them. Espa’s primary handler was shorter. She looked at them, and took all of them with the light irises of her eyes, and landed one hand spread flat on their chest. Espa was glad she didn’t have a knife, just then. It hoped she didn’t plan on using the collar. It would be far too shameful, to scream like this.
She pushed them on their back to the bed.
Espa’s head glitched, again, but it stopped it from running in circles. This was weird, novel maybe, but they figured it meant they weren’t going to bleed. The thought ought to be relieving, but it didn’t really do much. There were plenty of things you could do to someone without drawing a bead of blood.
Breaking certain bones, for example. Its stomach dropped as she leaned over them, with that weird face. It schooled its own, keeping the thoughts out of its expression. She wouldn’t want to see that.
Ms. Ann would have them apologize here. But it could sound like begging. That could be annoying. Before Espa could even think to draw a breath to say anything, the handler collapsed on top of them. It froze.
Her skin was close. So close. There weren’t enough layers of fabric in between them and it was damp against its, raw and full of goosebumps. Her fingers sunk in the flesh of its back, a painless hold that was like having its skin ripped off. Espa didn’t breathe and didn’t move. Was this the punishment? It sounded merciful, but also too much to bear. Her body shifted on top of theirs, trapping them, and Espa didn’t move. “You’re sorry, aren’t you?”
It nearly didn’t have the breath to say, “Yes. Ma’am.”
“You’re a good weapon,” she said, hands suddenly moving up—dragging across the narrow vacuum between its back and the cushion, fingers digging as they tried to flee upwards towards its neck—and Espa resisted the reflex to lurch. It breathed in. Then out. Then stopped, because she could probably sense it against her chest. “You’re such a good weapon. A good girl... yes, you know that—you know that, right?”
Espa didn’t answer. It sounded entitled to, although they probably should have, but their skin was being rubbed every inch by somebody else’s wiggling body. Her body wrapped them as if they were a pillow, freely. It couldn’t even think to manage the sensation. Ms. Júlia nuzzled her face in the crook of its neck and it nearly gagged. “Good,” she took a sniff. “So good.”
The weapon was still, bearing their predicament, distantly mourning for the mug of broth that had smelled that good and felt that warm, when Ms. Júlia adjusted herself over them, planting her arms on the mattress to hold her weight on her arms. Were they any less well-trained, they would’ve let out a trembling sigh of relief. She moved to sit atop their dangling legs, and then frowned, and then dragged them by the arm to lay in the middle of the bed.
The sheets were softer than what they were used to, and they felt wrong and slippery sliding along its back. Espa focused on its breathing, and didn’t move from its new spot, and pitifully didn’t catch back a confused sound as it made it past its throat upon Ms. Júlia’s fingers finding the brand on its pelvis. Its breath hitched without its permission. The fingers trailed there, rubbing a small circle over the symbol burned into their skin, and it made them shiver, which they hadn’t wanted to do. They heard a smile in her hum. The brand, the one all weapons had, shaped like the mighty Dove, rested just below where the hem of its trousers
Where the hem of its trousers would be. Had they not been dropped on the floor.
As it was, just below, was the fabric of their boxers. Ms. Júlia took a keen interest in them. Espa, through it all, didn’t find it in them to understand.
They figured it was punishment enough. The handler shed them every last layer of cloth and skin and flesh and left them bared to the bone, painful touch pressing too light against its face. She had told them to move, so they had, although it’d taken too long and they’d received a slap. That had been more familiar; it’d felt less wrong, somehow. They found themself clinging to the dull pain throbbing on their cheek as she shook off her own clothes, worsening the skin-to-skin contact, shed them to the side of the bed. This bare, they could see now, that she wasn’t so unmarred as they’d thought. There were small purple bruises on her thighs, her chest, like someone had pinched the skin or suctioned on it. An angry ring of red crowned her neck, mirroring the collar on Espa’s own, which tilted their world to the side. The image was unthinkable. It didn’t belong there. They had enough sense to know it didn’t. Like that, still with that heavy breath that betrayed she was nearly crying, the handler’s face covered Espa’s vision soon enough.
It’d been somewhat disorientating.
The weapon somehow hadn’t thrown up, although why, they weren’t so sure. They were maneuvered into positions for a beating, except no beating came, and she sounded sad. Then happy, then shivery, then relieved, and it was too much to catch up to. Espa’s body buzzed as if ran over by a strike from the collar. Its head pounded for some reason, and its mouth felt dry. Hers wasn’t. There were sticky bits and clammy bits and everything was unbearably warm. The handler collapsed beside it, at last, satisfied tears sliding down her face.
Espa hadn’t moved on its own, yet. She didn’t direct a word at them either, not even a dismissal. At some point, she nuzzled herself in her blankets again, playing with her own loose bangs, and ordered them to go back to the door. Espa hadn’t listened the first time, so their head was whipped to the side with so much strength it stung like fire. That slap, unlike the first, wasn’t so grounding. They were too stunned to even blink. But it listened, it searched for the fabric in the ever-dimming light, privative against the eyes, and slid up all its clothes all the way. There were dried things over their skin. It ignored them. It expected to feel more at ease, then, back on its feet. But the buzzing didn’t leave.
Ms. Júlia stayed there, and Espa’s body assumed position in front of the door, and its eyes didn’t watch her as they previously had. Outside, the sun continued to set. The housekeepers arrived two minutes after to refill the bottles of water she hadn’t drunk.
Stepping out of the room to receive them felt like finally breathing again after being dunked underwater. The hallway felt full of air, air they hadn’t known for hours. They took the bottle and tried not to tremble. Prevented, with some shock, their knees from buckling. Watched as the workers made their way back downstairs and found their gaze staring at the hardwood floor.
They were lucky, that the handler was napping again by then. They weren’t proud of the gasping noises they’d made on the other side of the door.
CWs: Murder, violence and reluctant whumper (all alluded to), living weapon whumpees and organized crime. Wink wink
Hi ^_^ This has been haunting my brain for a while now and I'm finally getting around to doing this! Just a little introduction this time around. Here is Ciça's design in this au also. Enjoy <3
Next (coming)
The knife rose up in her grip, glimmering silver by its sharp end. She evaluated her target, planning her blow. Her aim, now, was unwavering. She'd become good at doing this, over the years. When first it'd been a daunting task—a mess—it hardly fazed her by now. No; today, it was second nature. She did not even spare attention to the tears anymore.
And so, as she had, countless times in her life, she expertly angled the blade. As she had, countless times in her life, she brought it down.
The cutting board rattled a little with the impact. The onions sliced easily under her practiced cuts, allowing her to part their form in the little tiny squares she liked. Ciça hummed to herself, quick-handed. On the far corner of the kitchen, water boiled. Its soft gurgling was welcome company.
Soup, she was making today. It was a soft, early spring afternoon. The clouds were a lovely curtain to the shy heat outside, and there was a crisp chillness to the air. A slight breeze came in from the open doors and windows, carrying over a sweet smell. Her flowers. Ciça inhaled the scent of daisies and coriander, relished in the faint rustling of the widest leaves brushing together. It was a peaceful day.
The woman finished the onions, taking her time with the meat and potatoes. She dried up the pasta on the pan, shoved her vegetables in the other to brew. Steam rose in thin, slow wisps to hug the air. Ciça smiled a little to herself. All said and done, she washed her hands before picking up the book she'd left on the sofa table and stationing herself by the living room.
Ciça greatly enjoyed times like these. Some years ago—seven, now?—they were rare. It was always a high tension in her shoulders. Those days weren't so soft. Rather, sharp. Stinging to the touch. Suffocating. To balance sensitive information and a pile of secrets on her hands, both stained with the sickly crimson of blood. There wasn't always time to wash it before the next. She brought to her lips a mug of tea, sighing away the memories. The aftertaste of the drink made her itch for a snack; she should take a trip to the bakery too, she thought, before sun set. Get some butter and bread with her allowance to go with the soup. She found herself smiling to the rim of the cup with the idea. It wasn't like she could never treat herself to such luxuries too, before. She'd just never had the stomach to.
Ciça tried not to think much about that time. She couldn't remember food tasting good, then. It was pointless. Maybe it was the screams that soured it. Maybe it was the sleepless nights. It was like hunger: clawing at your insides to try and swallow everything, render your psyche in endless, all-consuming pain, until you gave in and sated it. She could not give herself the luxury of doing so. People needed her. To blend in with cruelty. To be the hands that carried out so much gore. To be unwavering in face of it all, be a cog in the machine, all so that nobody suspected it when files got stolen, when intel was suddenly missing. She'd been sent in to be hungry. She couldn't afford to feed. To sate on kindness.
Another rush of wind came from the open doors behind the couch, the gentlest of touches to caress her cheeks. Ciça closed her eyes, relishing in the comfort of her house. It was so safe, here. Her soup exhaled a delicious scent from the kitchen, relaxing her spirits. She took another sip from the tea.
Warm.
— + —
Whenever Ciça went out, she made sure to lock all of the doors and the padlock on the porch. There was barely a need these days. Still, old habits died hard. Decades of experience that reminded her it was always better to be prepared, even if it meant a minute or two double-checking her latches for good measure. The wide doors of the house they'd given her when she retired to remote work closed with a reassuring creak. She could oil them, if she wanted. She didn't like doors that closed too silent.
It were warm smiles and familiar waves that greeted the former handler when she made her way down the street towards the bakery. Olívia, a young girl that lived right next door, was walking her dog to the last rays of sun, as always. Ciça stopped to pet him, giggling at the over-excitement of the mixed puppy pawing at her clothes.
"Taking a walk, sweetie?" She asked the owner, out of politeness. The girl nodded, lips irking up as she pried a coily lock of hair behind her ear. Ciça received Mel's wet kisses with laughter bubbling out of her chest, easing him out of her legs when he tried climbing up her pants.
"Mellie!" She chastised and tugged at his leash, voice high with embarrassment. Ciça brushed it off, endeared. He was just growing, it was all. With an ache, she fondly recalled the time she'd been allowed a pet herself. Ciça brushed away the sadness from her smile. Told her to be gentle with him.
"It's commendable patience," she sighed with a pout. She'd learned the word commendable recently, and would find ways to use it at every turn. "You're very good, Ciça. I can't really be like you."
It was met with a laugh.
"I hope your mom is well," she wished as she adjusted her dog-driveled bag on her shoulders and went back on her way. "See you around!" Olívia flashed her a pleasant smile and traded down her own path with an I'll tell her you send a hug! Ciça hummed to the air. Some older neighbors, closer her age, were sitting by their own porches along the way too, calling her in greeting as she passed. She beamed at them, hellos and good evenings spilling past her lips with a newfound ease that hadn't been there back when she moved. She didn't bother catching bits of their resumed conversations. It was nerve-soothing, really, not having to pay attention to every bit of information—potential intel—thrown around her. This wasn't enemy territory, after all.
This was home.
Even the cashier—Leila, a younger woman that had moved in from the south of the state earlier this year—recognized her with some warm small-talk as she weighed her share. R$ 5.32 on a dozen loaves, tagged and paid over the owner, Gerúndio, on the way out. He prodded her with some of the new candy he'd received from a new provider when she went to grab the butter, adding some on her bag as a gift. She giggled, waving him goodbye as she made her way back under the cooling streets and the laying sun.
She was in no rush, so it was nearly night by the time she finally turned the corner that'd lead to her house. It was a fancy one. Not new, but cared-for. Comfortable. She had had nothing to complain when they told her this was the spot they'd give her, out of her selected locations. Ciça, an outstanding agent, had no reason to not be awarded by years of hard work with such decorum. Good city, large house, generous allowance. Nobody else in the neighborhood knew, given—and she wasn't gonna tell. The Dove—her loyalty, on paper—didn't know it all either, and she was ready to take it with her to the grave. It was her job, after all. She'd completed her duty years ago, to both of the parties, valuable leakages to her real side. Now, Ciça could settle herself with periodic reports and analysis on her issued computer, little work on the side. She still passed on all that she could reasonably get her hands on, but it'd be suspicious to get too involved in her position. Connections hadn't been cut. They'd only softly faded into the background. The chirp of evening birds was louder than them, out here.
It'd taken a while to get used to. This ease. Not being on high alert every day of every week for decades, always waiting to be found out or pushing down regrets to make her role work. It'd taken a while—but now, she couldn't be happier. Had she ever, in her wildest dreams, imagined such a peaceful life for herself? It'd always felt so out of reach. Undeserved. She considered it a miracle of sorts. And, Ciça would merrily think, she wasn't going to trade it for anything else.
But when dusk fell, so did a heavy weight on her shoulders.
She had barely turned the street when she caught glimpse of it: The car, standing just in the corner of the road. Her system was quick to flood with something foreign. She made a point to ignore it—the people lounging inside the vehicle as to not invite suspicion—as she got the front gate keys from her pocket and hummed some melody to open the door. It was sleek in the corner of her eye. White, to blend in. Subtle enough that nobody would pay much attention to it. But Francisca knew better.
Even after years, it struck to the front of her attention whenever she saw it. Glistening, silver. Too tiny and too bland to draw a look from anyone else, placed in the corner of the hood. Ciça recognized it for what it was.
The logo of a flying, glistening dove.
She carefully settled her bags on the bench after the door. It was dark inside, all windows closed. For more than just caution, really—over here in this part of the country, mosquitoes flooded through every crack at twilight if you didn't shut all the doors regardless of the weather. Ciça flicked on a switch to let some light in.
She grabbed a jacket. Came out from the back door, to approach the people awaiting for her.
Her first thought, obviously, had been that she was absolutely fucked. She hadn't brought in any of her knives from the kitchen—acting like you'd been caught was a sure way of getting you caught—but couldn't help her muscles from tensing. Stance ready, eyes watching for any hints of a threat as if they'd never stopped scanning for them. She carefully kept it all away from her face and approached the car with an easy smile.
"Evening, gentlemen!" She greeted them. Ciça allowed herself to lean over the top of the window, cracking the driver a wink. On cue, the tinted panel rolled down. The muffled sound was grating to her ears. It was like nails on a chalkboard.
"Francisca," the man nodded in way of greeting. Ciça's smile became strained. It did not drop. The other person who'd been in the car with him had come out in the while she'd taken to go inside. Keeping guard, she figured. So cautious. She straightened up to her full height, hands in her pockets. He didn't continue; just took off a pair of sunglasses and wiped them on his shirt. The agent stationed across the car to watch the streets shot her a look. She didn't spare him much attention, but she clocked something odd about him. Like an itch on the middle of her back she couldn't quite locate to scratch. He looked younger than the driver. Wary, too.
From inside the car, he resumed, "Long no see. I take it you have packed already?" He asked, cold. The order made itself clear from between his words. Pack. Fuck, was it really urgent? Ciça minutely tensed. She forced her frame to relax.
She made her tone remain light. Lighthearted. "As soon as they told me," she lied. "Was just coming from the grocery store to grab a couple last." She cast a look over the houses across the street. Lights on, only a few kids and gossipy elders outside at the hour. Her throat felt a little tight. "Apologies for keeping you in the wait."
He ignored her half-assed attempt at sounding natural and put his glasses back on, despite the sunset. Ciça's eyes didn't linger on its beauty. His pale fingers curled up to tap on the steering wheel. "You recall it won't take long. Your brother has been looking forward to tonight." He glanced at her from over the darkened lens. "Should we come in to help you get it all in the car?"
Ciça frowned.
"Oh, thank you," she went along. Didn't purse her lips. A brief meeting with a "brother"? This wasn't code for anything good. She cast another look at the kid keeping watch outside of the car. His arms were crossed, idle. Forcefully so. "That's very kind of you."
There was a pause. A click, and she got out of the way for him to open the door. The kid just behind took the cue, crossing the distance to follow suit. Then it clicked. It dawned on Ciça what was it she wasn't being able to put a finger on, at his presence.
A weapon.
Brown skin, like cherry wood, short hair plastered to his brow in black, thin strands. By the looks, something past fourteen. An Arara? Likely. It didn't sit right with her to have something high like a Condor being sent just to retrieve her for some meeting, especially after so much time. Still, he looked enough at ease in a civil environment that this couldn't be one of the lowest-ranked—the Sabiás, confined to the undergrounds of the base, dispatched for simple executions and rarely going out. Out of the three, it was most reasonable. His eyes, black, caught hers for a moment. From the slight flinch, she assumed he hadn't meant to find her looking back. The reaction was subdued enough, trained instinct. Ciça cracked him a shy smile and made a point to let it slide. It wasn't lost on her how his relaxation was minute.
The agent—the fellow handler, she could now conclude—crossed the doorway with large strides, the weapon behind not straining in the slightest to keep up. Used to it, probably. Ciça politely held open the door for both, then closed it behind her as she left the remaining sunset for the bright, vast hall.
— + —
When Ciça flicked on the rest of the lights indoors, she saw the handler letting out a strained sigh. He leaned against the kitchen balcony, caressing the bridge of his nose and not bothering to keep up the cool, composed pretense now that they were inside. Ciça tried not to let her eyebrows raise. How unprofessional. The weapon, on the other hand, had settled himself on the corner of the living room and assumed a proper parade rest. She eyed his position for a split second, knowing any longer would make him nervous. Nodded to herself; it was a good one. He'd been trained well.
"I'll go straight to the point," he said, after Ciça had offered him a glass of water. The weapon stood there, awkwardly holding his own. Ciça was just about to tell his handler to give him permission to drink it when he'd started talking. A finger was pointed in her direction. She couldn't help it, then. A brow lifted on its own. "Francisca Vieira Correia, you have been summoned by the sector administration to resume your active duties. Effective immediately."
Ciça's second eyebrow joined the first.
"I see," she said, even thought she did not, not quite. Tried to keep the frown out of her expression. "And to what do I give the honor…?"
There was a pause. Hesitation. "It's too confidential to discuss here. I have orders to instruct you to ready yourself for a day and two nights at the base for briefing." He stared into her eyes. His were light, almost blue. Ciça faced him back, unfazed. "It is an urgent matter."
She let the silence stretch for a moment, replying with a hum. It sounded cynical even to her ears.
He was still a little unexperienced, she figured. At her silence, he let the tension line his posture. He was a whole head shorter than her. Most people were. And she wasn't brittle either. It seemed to dawn on him, then, his resolve faltering. Amused, she spared him.
"Sure," she shrugged. "I will get some clothes and toiletries in a bag. I reckon bedding and the like is provided?" She didn't wait for him to answer. "I would appreciate it if you borrowed me your weapon to get it over with quicker."
It was written plain and clear on his face that he did not like the idea. Still, she was a senior agent after all. Tight-lipped, he granted the permission. The weapon just gave him his slightest of bows and hurried to follow Ciça into the master bedroom.
She didn't bother turning on many of the other lights. Ciça very pointedly ignored the feeling of dread sinking on her stomach, the sourness pooling under her tongue. Tightened the strings on her duffel bag containing sleep and formal wear for five days, just to be sure. It was never just "a day and two nights," she reckoned, bitter. She gave some of the easy stuff for the kid to pack, roll or carry.
"Thank you," she smiled at him as he held them. From his stunned freezing, it wasn't something his handler did a lot.
Ciça felt her smile tightening. Brushed it away, before he could see it.
This was exactly why she didn't miss her field days.
Three minutes later, Francisca had gathered all that she'd need for the rendezvous and gotten her groceries in the drawer. She left the weapon holding the last of the bags as she moved all of her perishables to the freezer, opened the windows to put the more fragile of her plants indoors and away from the sun. She bit her lip. She hoped they wouldn't wither while she was away.
"Done?" He asked, impatient. Ciça made a point of ignoring him and checking up on her latches and locks one last time. She eyed the half-brewed soup over the oven. A wave of something she didn't try to name washed over her, but she locked it away. Bit her lip.
She carefully packed half of it into a tupperware and shoved it inside the bag along with her other stuff.
He was tapping his foot when she finally rose back to the living room. She didn't roll her eyes. Instead, and to his obvious annoyance, she just asked, "Shall we?"
She tried not to feel too deep an ache at closing the front gate and guarding away the key, too. Ciça breathed in. Held it in there, sighed out.
The handler put her bags over her shoulder, walking away and towards the car without looking back. She wasn't really in a position to refuse.
She waved at Olívia on the way to the car, receiving a bright reaction in response. The girl was coloring something from a book on her own frontyard. Ciça waved her, and the people's curious eyes watching her from their own porches, a final goodbye, plastering a smile over her face.
Take care! I'll be back soon.
A frown. Has something happened?
Her smile didn't waver, even as her escorts got in and buckled up their seatbelts. Night had fallen; no stars could be seen above, yet, but all light had vanished from the sky in the short while she'd taken to pack up. It now wore something akin to a nauseous shade of dead, navy blue. The clouds surely were to blame.
She merely reassured them, before getting in the car:
translation notes: "sina" means "destiny", a fate which one always falls back into and cannot seem to escape.
CWs: Aftermath of character death, aftermath of torture, grief, some dissociation, servant whumpee, living weapon whumpee, multiple whumpees, child whumpee, past whump, self-blaming, brief reference to gunshot wound, references to death and murder, offscreen violence.
We're so back.
Masterlist || previous
The tap sang, the water’s pour fading seamless into the muffled hissing outside. Sore, bony hands rinsed the plate under the current and turned it around, gently wiping the foam off its outer rim. The tips of the fingers were already soggy with humidity, brittle nails hastily cut uneven. The dish drainer clinked softly as it was lowered into its grid, porcelain joining the others.
Gisele sighed.
The cold wet night outside seeped in from the walls and the tiles on the floor like it wanted to scoop her skin, dig deep, take out all of the heat in her bones. Her clothes didn’t do much to protect her from it. Her soles, shaky supports to her weight, were barefoot; the little PJ shorts and the flaccid tank top were all she had, even if its straps kept falling down her shoulder in an unending cycle of adjusting and re-adjusting. Phantom goosebumps trailed across every inch of exposed skin, defenseless victims against the drop in the air. The chilly water from the tap didn’t help. She scrubbed her eyes, trying not to let the cold get too much to her. The rain had started more than an hour ago. She’d been home alone far before it’d even started.
Gi hadn’t really expected to be so. She might’ve even been a little confused. It was a buzzy feeling, far away like dregs echoing in the murky depths of her mind. Worry? Though not all that much. She had more pressing issues at hand and tasks to do before heading to bed. Besides, she figured, Ann was going out a lot lately anyways. What was the harm in another little outing? It wasn’t like she was paid to care.
Paid. Ha.
(Espa wasn’t going out, though. This wasn’t fully normal.)
(But then again, maybe she was just going back to her little outdoors routine?) (She hoped so. The kid looked miserable stuck at home.)
(She couldn’t say she didn’t relate.)
There was that, that unease, baseline by now, and slightly nostalgic, about hoping they’d come home before the handler noticed they were gone. There had been something off earlier. Espa had risen in a rush from the hallway as if having seen a ghost and stormed out the door with barely a fumbled explanation when questioned. It’d been more alarming right then. But even as the clock ticked, the most noteworthy thing that had happened was a roach hiding behind the fridge. The sense of urgency might’ve atrophied. Her brain forgetting about the feeling, Gi figured the asshole could’ve just forgotten something and they went out to take it. Her keys, perhaps? She’d sighed sadly at the idea. It would have been far too much luck.
Maybe Gisele should’ve been more concerned. And yet, she was slowly learning to let these fade into the background. Drowned out by the dense fall of water on the sink and the heavy splatter outside on the ceiling, lest she drive herself up the walls with paranoia. Espa had been good at evading their handler so far. On most occasions, at least. So she wasn’t actually thinking that much about it. She was currently more focused on scrubbing off a stubborn stain from a wooden spoon with the harsh side of the sponge, fruitlessly willing the excess fat to get out.
That was a little before the clock hit nine.
Gi’s body painfully locked up at once when the gate echoed open. It was loud—louder than Espa would’ve done. They, they were always quiet. She bit the inside of her cheek as she made herself keep looking down and focus on the fucking spoon. Her stomach just sunk, somewhat in sympathy. So she was here first. That was a shame.
Then she got in the range of the smell.
Gisele’s awareness had been, she would notice, gradually moulded by her time here. “Here” as in the house, the hellish, mind-numbing and terrifying weeks under the handler’s angry scorn. “Here” as in bound to these people by a ring of steel around her throat, almost like the collar of an animal, caged inside tiny little walls to never see the stars. She was sensitive to some things, now. The sound of angry steps, for one. The harsh plap of skin against skin.
And far worse than what had ever spilled from her monthly pads, the distinctive, metallic scent of blood.
Gi’s own turned to ice in her veins as the handler strode her way across the garage and shoved open the door to the living room. Her flip-flops were stained by mud. The rain got louder for a second before she shut it, smearing her crime all over the floor Gisele had just finished cleaning. Crimson red dripped beside the puddles. It leaked from something ugly on the figure she carried inside, a sack of potatoes made out of flesh and meat. Gi’s breath hitched as her eyes laid on it. It was like a knife to the skull.
Espa looked, in short words, like they’d just come back from hell.
Her hold on the sponge weakened without her meaning to. It was a miracle the spoon didn’t slip from her fingers and clattered to the floor then and there. Espa’s clothes dripped water, made sticky and heavy with the rain. They didn’t seem to notice. Their hands were soaked in thick, awful red. There were smears of gore on her face. Bruises and cuts fought for attention on the surface of her deep brown skin, dark bruises of wrong shades and sharp, bright splinters freeing the blood from her body. Their bandana had fallen off somewhere in the way, leaving their hair in an indistinct cloud around their face. Their feet were bare. And their eyes were downcast.
Their eyes.
Before she could even think about regretting it, the girl found herself bolting to her side. She scrambled to wipe the soap off her hands on the frayed tank top, ignoring Ann’s imposing figure to try and catch them when she released them from her grip. Gisele was trembling. The kid looked ruined. Fragile. Her brain started aimlessly running alarm bells at some point, without an outlet for what to do. Oh, fuck. What had—Was she—
Her mouth parted on its own. She didn’t know why. To ask, to cry, to shush, to scream for help. The handler brushed her wet strands off her face and shook her head, passing through the girl with a sigh. With a sharp twist and without changing her gait, she yanked her by the hair.
The breath got caught up in Gi’s throat. She coughed, adrenaline shooting through her system. “I—” she panted, “N-no, what did—no, no, no no no! No, no, nono please, she—” Her brain blanked as Ann’s fingers ruthlessly twisted and unmade her flimsy bun, scrambling to come up with anything coherent amongst the cloud of indistinct, sudden fear. Worry won. “What happened to her?”
The words were delivered nearly with tears. Ann just stared her down in poorly-concealed disdain. There was a worn-out accent to her usually vicious scowl. Gi curled up on herself when she dropped her butt-first against the hall’s entryway, a mute order to go back to the kitchen. She bit down a whimper at the impact to the floor as Ann sighed, again. It was heavy and dragged-out. “She’s fine,” she provided. Then added, darker, “The blood’s not hers.”
Gi just stared at her. Her ears were roaring. Espa remained limp where they fell when Ann ripped her from them. She was breathing hard and she didn’t like it. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
She flinched when Ann turned her head back with a disbelieving glare, remembering who it was whom she was exactly talking to.
Gi’s brain helpfully deprived her of remembering just what happened next. When she came back to herself, her arms were shakily risen over her head to shield it, her eyes were tearing up, and her cheek stung.
And the handler was gone.
The sky still poured buckets outside, providing thick white noise to fill in the cracks of the night. She half-swallowed a hiccup, unexpected, as her eyes laid more clearly on the pool of mud where had been her friend. Her tongue tasted bitter.
Her skin numbly prickled into the humid air. It was coated in the stench of blood she was going to be made to clean. Gisele sat there for a moment, hearing the rain assaulting her ears. She made herself get up. Choked on saliva. Furiously wiped her eyes.
Fuck. She needed to find out what had happened to them.
Experience was enough to tell her that after Ann took them, they would probably need her help. She forced herself to breathe in.
She didn’t finish washing the dishes.
The girl jerked in a flinch when the handler finally unlocked the basement’s door from the inside. She arose from the underground smoothly, drying her hands with the casual abandon of someone back from a bathroom break. Ann merely spared her another one of those looks as she came out. She sunk in on herself. The handler produced some sound of annoyance from low in her throat, something her brain was tempted to confuse for a snarl. It made her hackles raise.
“She’s not allowed to come up,” she ordered, not even looking at her. Gi’s eyes locked on her with the rapt attention of a bunny in face of its end. A shift on Ann’s jaw betrayed her mood. Her voice was tight and she was completely out of patience and maybe Gisele shouldn’t have come here right now. “Patch her up. Don’t pull some shit like feeding her sorry ass either.” She groaned. “I’m going to bed.”
With that last announcement, she stomped away. Gi kept staring as her feet pounded the floor on the way out. Ann’s fingers soothingly caressed the bridge of her nose in a nervous habit, and the laundry room’s door closed with an ugly thump. Her body still took some more to move.
Gi turned her face to look underground.
The staircase stretched out into the heart of the darkness, underground. The bottom was so obscured it gave the impression of being infinite. It was as dense an atmosphere as she remembered. She second-doubted her willingness to go and help, for a second. Surely Espa could deal with it on her own?
The thought made the bittery taste on her mouth grow acrid. She put a hand on the doorknob and lowered herself into the basement. She made a valuable effort of blocking her brain from its thoughts and the shaking from her hands.
The taste grew worse, as she walked down the stairs.
Light invaded her eyes when she reached the door at the bottom to enter. Gi winced. The basement also had those bright, painful lamps from upstairs. She’d nearly forgotten. It was so... dark, in her mind. As Gisele tried to blink away the shock to focus her vision, assaulted from where she stood, the figure down there twitched. It was too minute a movement for her dazed eyes to catch. Gi breathed out. She went down the final step. Didn’t dare close the door behind her.
Once inside the basement proper, it was like being caged in a nightmare. She ignored the whip stand screaming for attention on the corner of her eye, feeling her knees buckle. Her breath hitched. She held her ground. Not now. Not now. She swallowed something that tasted an awful lot like bile. It felt a bit like a dream. Kind of in the bad way and kind of in the numb one. Or like being wrapped all around by the deep sea. Gi shook herself out of it as she found it. They were there.
Espa was kneeling. Or collapsed on their knees, rather. Which she tried not to notice too hard. When they caught her presence, they flinched. Hard. Gi startled to a halt, frozen.
For a moment, nerves already stretched thin, both girls just stared at each other. Or at least, Espa did. She couldn’t quite stand to look for long.
Ann had taken their shirt. The collar around their throat looked terribly visible in its absence.
Gisele felt her face make an unhappy grimace in response. They followed her with their eyes in their spot as she made her way there. Carefully. She hadn’t forgotten the medicine kit. “...Hey,” she greeted low, throat tight. Her vision was swimming, but she tried to ignore it. (Emphasis on tried.) The weapon’s expression was hard to make out. It seemed dangerously close to something she couldn’t bring herself to quite name. Her voice trembled, going high and hysterical instead of gentle. “Are you okay?”
She winced at their lack of response. Bad one. “Sorry.”
Her eyes tracked Espa biting their lip, and they turned their pained expression to the floor. Gi tried not to chew down on her own. She eyed her wounded sack of a body, enthralled by the horror. Ann had made it worse. Gi’s eyes were captive to the sight of the single drop of blood falling down. Some patches of bare skin were burnt.
Cauterized.
She belatedly realized, with a bit of detached alarm, that they were shaking. But didn’t move. If not for the trembling, death grip they had on their own arms, one would’ve thought them a picture. Separated from the viewer by a layer of paper. She shakily set the little box on the floor, eyes on them. No reaction.
Gisele took a deep breath. She tentatively lowered herself on their side. Their chest rose at a timid, rigid pace. Her fingertips were so sunken she was afraid they might draw blood. Gi’s tongue felt thick. This was bad. She pushed out, with difficulty: “What—what did she do?”
To her surprise, the weapon’s eyes started to brim, shiny, with what she took yet a moment or two to realize that were tears.
--
The weapon had fought to drag its body back in control when it was left alone. They weren’t so successful with their mind.
Ms. Ann’s voice was still ringing indistinctly in their head. It couldn’t make out the ghosts of the words as much as sit with them, paralyzed. Other feelings fought for attention, and they couldn’t do a thing to stop them. They still felt the rain. A foreign stone was sunk deep where its vocal chords should be. Everything hurt.
So much they couldn’t breathe.
It might’ve been minutes or hours after when the door opened again. It had still been in position—in a fool’s attempt to pass for one. It might’ve been their last scraps of obedience, or rather it might’ve been that it couldn’t focus long enough to make its body move. Pathetic, truly. It didn’t even want to do so. The weapon had been drowning in a haze of nameless emotions when she arrived, with no hope to come up for air.
It wasn’t sure that it even deserved to.
She braced for pain—or would have, were she any more capable—but it wasn’t even Ann. It was Gisele. They flinched against themself when they heard her steps. It sunk its fingers, stopping mid-soothe, deeper into its arms. It was instinctive.
She looked scared. And sad, which ached some part of them they couldn’t place, and after she stepped down from the stairs she slowly started approaching them. Its eyes tracked her like they would a threat. They couldn’t do much else. Its arms throbbed. Its skin stung. It had been sinking in for the past thirty minutes that it had been years since it’d gotten her that mad.
Gisele looked at it and asked it if it was okay.
A good weapon would’ve answered. They didn’t even want to exist right now.
From the corner of its eye, it only noticed her getting more worked up and nervous. She squatted down with some difficulty. “...What—what did she do?”
Something unpleasant rose up with the memory. It wished its brain wasn’t working well enough to supply that.
Gisele looked sadder. Her hands hovered uselessly in front of her body, and Espa sunk its own deeper into its arm. It sucked in a breath. Then a drop of water slid down their cheek and fell from their face.
Oh.
Fuck.
“Oh, no.” Gisele let out in a breath. “Shit—hey, hey, I’m here, okay? She’s gone.” That struck them like a belt. “You’re good, you’re g-good, okay? Espa?” It tasted blood. It didn’t dare cover its eyes. But it didn’t want her to see, either. Pitiful. Espada blinked, trying to get their breathing to even. In, Espa. She could focus on just one thing. (She couldn’t.) In. Out. In, hold it there, and— “Y-you—it’s okay,” repeated the servant. Gisele wasn’t good at this. It was awkward. They just needed to breathe and get it together. The air smelled like blood.
She’s gone.
Nails sunk into their skin. Like her blood.
The weapon breathed in again, trying not to choke. In. In, and—no, no, no no no. No. Out. They could calm down. They just needed a second, then they’d be good again. It tried opening its mouth to tell her so.
Her hands met its hair and any semblance of eloquence died right there.
Gisele looked at her, expression somewhat baffled and horrified, and started petting its head in the same spot its handler did when it pleased her enough. Unlike they had today. Espa’s skin was wet—not all of it was water—and dry. The warmth of hers was clammy and damning. It tried to focus on the blisters on its body instead. Nothing was working. “She’s gone. You’re good now.” It was strangled. “I’m here. O-okay? I’m here. You’re okay.”
An ugly shake tried to take over their body. Espa’s eyes spilled. It shot up a hand to cover its mouth before the sounds started coming out.
“Oh—hey, hey, it’s okay. Here, I got you, okay?” It couldn’t breathe. The harder Espa tried to hold it in, get themself together, the closer it got to just getting out. Gisele reached out closer, easy and fluid as a dancer, and pulled its head closer. “Shh. It’s okay. She was rough. You can cry. I’m here.”
The closer touch somehow made it even worse. Espa’s breath catched. It shouldn’t. F-fuck, she—
They’d held Ciça like this. Just hours before.
It wanted to scream.
Gisele wouldn’t let them go until they stopped—until they stopped fucking crying, so it just had to get it together and stop. Its chest hurt. Espa’s throat produced a pathetic noise their hand wasn’t enough to muffle, and they started to lose control. Water fell onto her shoulder. Espa needed to get away. Gisele’s skin against its own was too much to handle. They were going to crumble. They couldn’t do it. They tried to leave their mouth free to gasp for air.
They shouldn’t have done that, in retrospect.
The basement echoed with a whine, involuntary and breathless. Espa bit its mouth shut to abort it, but it was too late. Gisele seemed a bit shocked. Its whole body was sore. Her wrath, their stupid fucking defiance, the fading adrenaline, it all blended together in a dull, sharp pain. Its mind wandered to her, left there. The rain must be making the body cold right now.
The bullet wound on its arm lit up. Espa couldn’t breathe.
Why?
Oh, god, they were—they’d done it. Ciça’s blank eyes faced them when they tried to close theirs, previously shining stars blinking out into a hollow darkness. She had been so scared. She had been in pain. Something awful, something worse, got caught somewhere between its chest and its throat and made its whole body convulse with the contained noise. Their chest clenched, spreading cold through their limbs. She was still there. Limp. Vulnerable. Hurt. Destroyed. It shouldn’t have let her get hurt. They should’ve protected her. They should’ve kept Ms. Ann away. They should’ve been more careful. They—
She wasn’t supposed to be gone.
It couldn’t stop the tears as they came. It couldn’t stop the awful, traitorous trembling. It couldn’t stop Ms. Ann. It couldn’t stop a bullet that had already been fired, lodged into her chest. The blood oozing from it looked sick. It looked wrong. Why now? Why her? Ciça was so good, she didn’t deserve—It hadn’t even been her fault. She didn’t even know. They should’ve warned her. They belatedly remembered, as if it had been weeks ago, when they ran through the town earlier, looking for her. They should’ve been faster. They clung to an image, a realization slowly washing down on them.
Her house.
They hadn’t locked back the porch when they left.
It dropped heavy on its body. Nobody would be there to lock it back again. Her plants had just been watered, but who—who was going to take care of them? Would they miss her? It pictured the lonely daisy at the porch, withering away in the wind. It gagged. Her fridge. All the nice food in her fridge was going to waste. Her wardrobe was going to stay there, forgotten. Catching dust.
It wasn’t supposed to end. She should still have time. It recalled that she had bought a special pair of pants to use in the holidays the other week. They were new. She was excited, gloating about it. She was excited to wear them. She was excited about her TV show. She must’ve been excited for tomorrow. She was supposed to sleep in her bed tonight. Cozy. Warm.
She hadn’t even gotten to eat the rest of the chocolate cake she’d done before Ms. Ann got her.
Espa couldn’t breathe. They couldn’t think, nor will themself to move. They sagged to the floor, a useless, worthless puddle of poorly-muffled noise and shaking and water and weakness and her blood, and they just quit. It wished she could be fine. It wished she could go back home, tender and whole and safe. She was planning to see her nephew, in a month. The water falling down its cheeks and the deadly burning in the depths of its throat felt as bad as Gisele’s shooshing, her hand painstakingly rubbing, pressing down the exposed vertebrae of its back. It made them sick with poison from inside. Weapons were used to dead bodies. They’d made dozens of them fall. They’d checked fallen assets, searched for their pulse just so they could give the headquarters an accurate report of the loss. They’d searched for it in the factory. They knew where to look.
Right now, it was like they could feel it in real time. Ciça’s breathing, slowing down to a pained stop. Her lungs struggled, trying to keep breathing. It wasn’t their choice to make. Her heart, fluttering weaker under their fingertips. Then the blood. The twitches. The bullet, sinking deep. Weapons were used to dead bodies. Weapons, if they were keeping track, could tell exactly when a person became one, from one second to the next. The carcass had still been warm then. She’d always run warm.
It shouldn’t have been her.
Espa thought, for nearly a full second, that they were drowning. They weren’t sure of where was up and where was down. Everything hurt. Its mouth opened and closed, but no air came in. Everything felt heavy, oppressive. Everything burnt. There was water everywhere. They were cold. Gisele was still there. They couldn’t take it anymore. Every brush of her skin against their bare back (bare? When had they even—) made them recoil. It was like bugs crawling up their ribs, thousands of centipedes making their way through their flesh. Her other hand was dangerously close to their neck. The collar was almost a welcome defense on there. It half-wished it’d go off and fry them to the core.
It could barely move its fingers when it shakily raised a hand to shove her off. It wasn’t thinking clearly. If it had, it wouldn’t have done that. Weapons didn’t retract. Weapons didn’t tremble on the floor like stupid fledglings. Weapons didn’t allow their charges to die.
It felt more tears coming. It covered its mouth again, helpless, and curled away.
Gisele stayed there, unmoved and in increasing shock, as the weapon kept hammering onto the thought that she should be alive. As if, if they wished for it strongly enough, it would come true. Ciça’s tender, big hands. Her wrinkled smile. The laugh lines around her eyes. Her large frame, the little skin rolls on her back, the little pleased hum she did when she cooked for herself. How she licked her fingers when she ate fruit. How her laughter echoed through the air pristine like a bell. Her buzzed hair was always itching. She was always talking about how it’d been too long and she already needed to shave it again. The taste of long-gone bread hugged its tongue, bitter. It squeezed its eyes shut, soaking into the ghost of warmth.
It all blinked into nothing, followed by the thunder of a gunshot.
CWs: Conditioned whumpee, domestic slavery, multiple whumpees, Ann causing trouble for everyone since it's her favorite hobby or something, abuse, covert (semi-covert?) whump, slapping, some brief manhandling. Welcome to the final stage of Arc I! :) We're very close now.
Masterlist || previous
“But—”
“No buts. I said, she doesn’t need it. Did I hit you too hard or what?”
A flinch. “It just—she didn’t get dinner yesterday either, it’s—”
“I know my weapon, girl,” she landed her finger on her brow, feeling the servant go still under the contact. The threat. “I said she can handle it, it’s ‘cause she can. Espada.”
“Yes, miss.”
“Wait, Espa—”
“Come.”
The weapon got up from her seat, knife set and whetstone discarded by the balcony. She had the habit of sharpening her inventory and tending to her armory when there was no other task at hand. Ann figured there were worse pastimes to have.
The handler hadn’t bothered putting on anything besides flip flops, but gave her weapon the time to tie up her own shoelaces at the door. All the while, the servant stood in her corner, body drawn in a stiff position as she sent them an obstinate glare. Ann merely stared.
She slapped her across the cheek when she didn’t drop it.
It knocked her over, making the girl trip herself to the ground like an idiot. The servant looked up at her with wide eyes, a hand rising up to caddle the swelling bruise. She was otherwise frozen by the shock. Ann looked down at her.
“You got anything else to say?”
She flinched. Her throat bulged in a gulping motion, but she didn’t ever pry her eyes off her face. As if this was some kind of circus and she had the guts to stand against her or something. Ann wasn’t gonna just let it slide. She raised an eyebrow. It got her breath to visibly hitch, body drawing up in tension. The handler’s eye twitched. She crouched down to her level.
When Ann grabbed her chin, she hissed, “When I ask you a question—” A yelp left her mouth, but Ann clamped it shut with another hand. She wasn’t in the mood for noises. “You answer me with ‘no, miss’ or ‘yes, miss’, are we clear? Do I need to beat it into that little head of yours again?” The girl frantically shook her head, terror dawning on her face. Her chest was making ragged motions. She was having trouble breathing.
She released her face, getting her to gasp and shiver. Ann didn’t get up. She started to back up against the wall.
“I asked,” she repeated, before she could crawl away, “if you had anything else to say?”
“No!” She wheezed, out of breath. She’d averted her gaze, looking at anywhere but the handler’s way. Her hands were raised over her face. Another flinch. Before Ann could do it, she scrambled to correct, “No, miss. S-sorry, I, no, no. No. I don’t, I’m—n-no.”
“Ms. Ann,” Espada called from behind. She whipped her head around, shifting her attention to the weapon. “The sky seems gray. I’m afraid it might rain later.”
She sighed.
“We should get going,” she decided, supporting a hand on her knees and getting up. Ann shot last glance at the trembling servant on the floor. She hadn’t moved from her spot. It looked as if she was choking on air. She “Lunch on the table at noon,” she reminded her. “You heard me?”
“Yes. Miss. Yes, miss.” Her voice was several octaves lower, and she refused to lift her head off the spot she was staring at on the floor. Now that was a bit better, Ann thought. She grabbed her keys, turning her back, and walked out of the gate.
The weapon followed silently behind her.
--
“You’ll only grab the bags for me,” she told them, as they walked away from the house. Espa hummed in acknowledgment, because she couldn’t see it nodding from behind. “Last time you bought shit on your own, half the brands were wrong and the other half was missing. Not making the same mistake twice.”
Espa bit its lip. She was, as usual, correct. It still stung a little to be reminded, but it’d been pretty much their fault. “Yes, miss.”
Their tone was much more even when they said it. Unlike some, they had practice in it. And in not going out of their way to just piss her off. Ms. Ann wasn’t half as dissatisfied when they followed their way, turning a corner and stepping away from the neighbourhood.
Her steps were large, lazy over the empty streets—there would be a crowd when they reached the center, it thought. Espa's boots met the gravel and concrete softly, barely a noise being made. A shadow following on her tow, covered in black. Ms. Ann's hair waved slightly in the breeze, reaching below her shoulders. It was longer than when they’d arrived. Espa glanced up. They hadn't been fully lying earlier. There was no blue in the sky today. Like her, it hoped this wouldn't be a reprise from the last time they'd been taken to buy groceries. Their cheek ached just thinking about it.
"That fucking idiot," it heard her muttering at some point. If Espa's attention hadn't been mostly aimed at its handler already, it'd have snapped at her at that. They didn't tense up. Their lip was once again the target of it, instead. Ms. Ann kept mumbling, "Who does she think she is?" It had a feeling of where this was going, but they didn’t sigh. Even though it wasn’t like the handler would see it if it did. "She has one job. One job! And it's not to take care of my fucking weapons for me," she huffed.
It pretty much was, though. Espa didn't cook for itself. Neither did her, for that matter. It didn’t say that.
"Acting like you'll die if you go without a meal or two," she caressed the spot in between her eyes, sign of a potential headache. “God. You’re not a fucking toddler. Is she what, stupid?” It did agree with that part. Gisele was just being reckless. She needed to stop giving herself reasons to be beaten at every other hour. This little hunger was as relevant as a bug bite. Less, even. It didn’t warrant an intervention.
She was a little tiring, sometimes. It wished she had some more self-preservation.
It heard a scoff, a rock being kicked where Ms. Ann’s foot met it. She just hoped she would have forgotten about it by the time they came back home. "For fucking real. Why're newbies like that?"
Espa wasn’t supposed to actually answer, so she kept annoying herself about it. Which it was technically used to by now. Or should be. The periodic complaints followed them until the nearest cafe, where its handler thankfully distracted herself to get a treat. Espa watched the street as she did. It was a peaceful morning this side of the town.
"You want some, too, little lady?"
It took them a while to notice they'd just been addressed. Ms. Ann was already paying, a plump coxinha wrapped up in her hands and the pão delícia a soft, fluffy cheese bun stuffed into her mouth. She bit off a piece of it to free her mouth.
"She's good," she answered for it, licking her lips. The cashier cocked his head.
"You sure? I can do a little discount, if y—"
Ms. Ann snapped, "I said she's good," Espa had a throbbing sense of deja-vú at the scene. The guy seemed a little reluctant, they did not know why, shooting them a glance.
Espa blinked. He waited.
Ah. Their input. Or whatever. "I'm not hungry," they told him. "Don't want any. Thank you."
Ms. Ann grabbed the card machine from his hold while he was still frowning at them, single-handedly typing in her password. She used the exact same one for all of her accounts, for all of her devices. Espa didn't exactly know much of words or maths, but that was one string they surely knew by heart.
Begrudgingly, the cashier went to accept the payment, but got the machine shoved in his hands before he could reach out to it by himself. A half-yelp, and the thing almost fell to the ground. Ms. Ann was already stomping away. The weapon held back a sigh.
Hopefully, that'd at least take Gisele's little episode out of her mind.
The doors of the supermarket opened with a quiet hiss and a blissful load of cool air to let them in. Espa breathed out, relieved. Even though they were slowly growing accustomed, summer drew near without a care. Not here indoors, however. The faint, cold bite of the environment was welcome. The smell of the clean aisles, the fresh AC, it was all a little familiar. It was just like home. They liked this place.
Ms. Ann was much more used at navigating it than they were, so she was confident in reading up plaques and going straight to the section she wanted. It was quite thankful for that. She would grab an item, the cart, Espa's arm, give her very specific instructions for certain products before releasing them. They double then triple checked every item before bringing it. (It really, really didn’t want it to be like last time.) Soon, their shopping cart was filled. Espa recognized some soap brands she had apparently grown fond of lately. Hair products, for her and for it—Espa didn’t need much, but they saw that same three-in-one shampoo they were given back at the base. Gisele must’ve warned her that it was running out.
The line in the check-out stand she chose was filled with people. Though none of the others around were much emptier. Espa stood a step behind its handler, watching the surroundings. The line two rows to the left looked painfully slow, worse than theirs. The one just at their right was still long, but going more smoothly. Another glance at Ms. Ann. They hoped that wouldn’t worsen her mood. Two people had already taken their spots behind them on the line. Ahead, the queue was already walking. Espa took a look to check how many were left until their turn.
Their eyes burned into the spot ahead. They slowly turned around, looked back to check a second time, felt the heat slowly be sucked off their body.
It tasted copper. Its lip. It'd bitten it again.
Espa sucked in a breath, side-eyed her handler. No. Shit. No. She was leaning against the cart, verifying something on her phone. Unaware of her surroundings. (That was why she had Espa for.) It looked back ahead. Its mouth felt full of cotton.
Ciça was there.
Two people ahead on the line, almost checking out. Ciça. Not at home, not across the town, not on a sunny Sunday watching TV or making herself a dessert. A mere five meters apart from them.
From Ms. Ann.
The weapon forced itself to inhale another load of air.
Their hands clenched around the hem of their shirt. They released the grip. Tightened it again. Made themself calm down. It shouldn’t panic. It had no reason to panic. She expelled the breath, much denser than it had been a minute ago.
(Ciça was here. Ms. Ann was here. Ciça couldn’t just be here.
She was.
Ciça was here.
Ciça was here.)
No. It had no reason to be worried. They didn't know each other. Never would. For Ms. Ann, Ciça was nothing but a random, unremarkable stranger. For Ciça—it breathed in. Held. Breathed out.
In. Out.
For Ciça, it was here.
It didn't matter who Ms. Ann was. She knew it. In that moment, Espa regretted everything they had ever done since arriving in town. They should never have entered her house. They should never have eaten beside her. They—
In. In, Espada.
Ciça was in front of them in the line. The only danger was of her seeing it. But it could find a way to deal with the recognition. Find a way to make it go unnoticed by Ms. Ann. Somehow make her forget about it. Right? No, bad train of thought. They were walking on a thin line here. It was far too risky. Could the both of them get out of the queue before Ciça ever saw them, give the excuse that the other right to the side was going smoother? Espa felt its blood roaring in its ears. Ms. Ann wouldn't change lines at this point. Their turn wasn't that far. Could it perhaps go out of the line itself? Grab something that she'd forgotten? The possibility that there might exist that “something” aside, it was unlikely. They'd have to ask. Just going out without permission would—she wouldn't even manage. The handler would grab their arm and they’d probably cause a scene. But if they spoke up, Ciça might turn. She knew its voice. A dozen possibilities swam inside its head, each being discarded as soon as they showed up. This was bad. This was terrible.
Espa breathed in. Out again. Released the pressure on the fabric at the base of her stomach.
The best case scenario, right now, would be Ciça merely not noticing them behind her on the line. She'd never turn, she'd gather her groceries and walk out of the supermarket, and Ms. Ann would never face the very personification of all of its failures, would never suspect a thing. They'd go home, she'd forget about Gisele's little outburst, and get back to the mission. No questions asked. Crisis avoided.
It was the best case scenario. Which meant it would not happen at all.
The best case scenario was never the one outcome. Hoping for it was just a great way to get yourself dead, caught or shot in the arm. Espa had enough experience to know that.
The worst case scenario—now, that would be Ciça seeing them. She'd recognize it, because of course she would, and would vocalize it. Ms. Ann would catch it. Because of course she would. She would find it strange, and they would be in for an interrogation once at home, for a lock to be put around their neck and for Ciça to never see the light of day again. Espa breathed in.
None of the two conditions that prevented a catastrophic turn were in its hands. Ciça turning. Ciça greeting them. The first was fully up to luck. People who relied on luck usually also got themselves killed.
Which meant that it was all on Ciça.
They felt something heavy settling on their stomach. Regret, maybe. They wouldn't be able to quite put a finger on the name. That wasn't what they had been trained to do.
The concerns didn't ease out from the front of their mind once, despite their handler not noticing it in the slightest. At least. Espa helped her settle the items on the checkout balcony, watching as they got rolled away for the cashier to scan. Ciça was just in front packing her groceries into the large bags she'd brought for herself. A pressure built up on its chest.
They felt a little like the floor had opened under its feet when it happened. Espa’s fingers closed around a package of rice. They didn’t want to look. Wanted to pretend they existed in a bubble where it wouldn’t matter, where it wouldn’t make a difference.
It always did.
They knew it. They always had. They wished Ciça wasn’t here. They wished they weren’t here. It was taken over by the immense, overwhelming feeling that it wanted to go home. It wasn’t up to them.
It never was.
--
Oh.
The familiar, fluffy short hair stood across the balcony, blue bandana and everything. It was her. She hadn't expected to run into Espa here. The first thing Ciça noticed was that she looked stiff, sort of—more than usual? Hard to tell. Could very well be only a trick of the light—, and the second was that this was a funny coincidence. Her lips irked up for a split second. Last time she came to the market, Espa was also here.
The kid's muscles seemed to still, tense, when their eyes met and she caught her smile. Ciça couldn’t help it as it dropped into a frown. Why was it—
Then, she noticed the third thing. Espa wasn't alone. It was a woman. A woman, half a head taller than her, skin white and hair silky, straight and dark, a mug on her face as she checked out her groceries. Ciça blinked. Espa's eyes darted for a second to her side, the adult beside her, before fixing back on Ciça.
The message was mute. She was almost taken aback by how loud it was.
"Espa," the woman called, unaware of the split-second interaction. Her voice was authoritative. Confident, as if she thought her every word was of the highest priority in the world. Unquestionable. And indeed, Espa perked up at her name and immediately looked at her. The woman gestured to another direction with a single glance, but Espa took the cue. Ciça looked in awe at the attunement. The communication without words. Espa crossed the check-out area towards the plastic sacks where the already scanned items stood. Towards her. Ciça realized with a bit of belated embarrassment that she hadn’t picked up all of her stuff yet. Espa tensed up ever so slightly as she approached the spot, started packing. She didn't acknowledge her presence otherwise. The woman continued to unload the ones back in the shopping cart to be added to the bill. Espa pointedly ignored Ciça. Even standing just inches apart. It was as if they didn’t know each other. As if Ciça wasn’t even there.
The little gears turned inside her head. Her mouth went a little bit dry.
Ah.
"What are you looking at?"
Ciça recoiled a bit at the words, taken from her trance. The younger woman accompanying Espa was looking in her direction. She seemed... mad? Ciça blinked again. The kid, still beside her, didn't pay attention to the scolding tone either.
It took Ciça a bit of a while to be sure that the woman was actually talking to her, though. She looked around, a little awkward. Okay. That glare was towards her alright. Ciça became a little defensive. "Excuse me?" She tried. The woman had an aggressive aura. She glanced down at Espa again, but she wasn't even looking up. Her hands tucked a bar of soap into another bag.
"Did you lose something in my face?" The woman continued. Seemed a little disgusted. Ciça clutched her shopping bag closer to her chest. "Fuck off."
"Would you like to pay in debit or credit, miss?" The cashier cut her off before she could continue, a tight-lipped smile. The woman snapped her eyes down at them.
"Debit," she snapped. With a huff, she said, "Espa, roll over. We're going."
"Yes, miss," she whispered, under her breath. Ciça glanced down at her again. Espa never faced her back.
The woman passed by, picking up some of the bags Espa had packed. Ciça couldn’t help but recoil a bit and give a wary look to the woman when she yanked Espa by the arm before she could even leave by herself, her own bags in a hand as the adult balanced the others over her shoulder. No complaints were ever uttered. No resistance ever happened. She silently let herself be manhandled, followed behind without a fuss. For a second, Ciça thought that she was witnessing a piece of a puzzle come into place inside her mind. It fit.
She gripped her own bags tighter. Finished packing up. Waved goodbye with a polite have a good week to the tired person at the checkout machine, walked up to the automatic doors. Espa and her—mom? They didn't exactly look alike. Perhaps she was adopted? Or had just taken up to her father. No. It didn’t really matter. They'd already left. The look in Espa's eyes as she was dragged away jumped to the front of her mind. It was mostly resigned. Accostumed. Under that, alert.
But underneath everything, it was afraid.
She bit her lip.
--
To make the day overall a little more catastrophic—just after miraculously avoiding a crisis it hadn't quite processed yet—it started raining.
While they still hadn't left the supermarket.
Ms. Ann audibly groaned, kicking a bit of dust off the floor. They were protected from the downpour outside, at least. The rain was sudden. Intense. The heavy splatter thrummed as if it wanted to reach them here inside, drown everything in a fifty-meter radius. That was bad. It hadn’t anticipated it would come to that. Espa shot a look at the landscape beyond them. Gray. Wet. And dense. Water ran across the corners of the street like it could carry off everything that was unlucky enough to fall into its current. It was starting to get humid and stuffy in the parking lot as well.
At least, it thought, that was helping break the heat. A little.
Then someone else arose from the automatic doors. Their eyes automatically jumped to the direction of the movement, but they snapped their gaze back ahead in the same second.
She chewed down on her lip.
It forced itself to take a breath. Held it there for seven. Breathed out for eight. Breathed in. Held.
Breathed out.
Out.
Ms. Ann was talking.
"Oh, that one again," she mumbled not all that subtly to herself. She'd sat down on the lot’s sidewalk, a heavy sigh leaving her lips. Her eyes narrowed against the light. It was getting beyond annoyance. Telltale signs of one of her headaches. That would not end up well. Steps approached them. Having a presence behind its back, where it couldn't see—it clenched its fist around the plastic bag. They didn't want to turn. It didn't want her to be there. Today. Out of all days. What were the chances? It shouldn’t happen.
(It would have not. If only they'd been quicker.)
(If only they'd taken longer.)
(No dwelling on the past, it berated itself. No dwelling on coincidences, on luck and on chance. It was unhelpful. It was really hard not to.) For the second time, and stronger than they remembered feeling in a long time, Espa just wished they'd go back home. Gisele must have lunch on the table for her handler by now. The thought made them register the hunger pangs again.
It breathed in. Out.
Ciça didn't, as it then noticed it’d been hoping, walk past them. Espa wanted to send her a glare. It restrained itself. Ms. Ann was still sitting, her head dropped as she supported her elbows on her knees. Ciça seemed hesitant—not nearly hesitant enough—to approach, but a glance at the handler was all it took for her to. It was getting progressively harder to pretend she didn't exist.
Having both her and Ms. Ann at such a short distance from one another rang some sort of alarm bell inside its head. Some sort of horror. As if two things that shouldn't get mixed together were being blended. Or maybe as if the sky and the sea had just switched positions. It was disorientating. They lifted their head when she entered the arbitrary perimeter they’d assigned as their space. It’d be weird not to, at that point.
"The fuck do you want?" Ms. Ann spoke first, also acknowledging the closeness. The weapon internally cringed. Great. She was annoyed. That headache was probably getting a little worse. They desperately wanted to tell Ciça to go away, as far as she could, but in no world they’d be able to do that. Ciça didn't recoil from the tone. She glared down at Ann instead. Espa became more exasperated about it by the second.
The last person that had stared like that at its handler had been Gisele. It felt a little nauseous as it remembered how that had gone.
"You don't need to be so rude," she was retorting. Espa didn't look at her for too long. Something about doing so felt dangerous. The sound of her voice was also slightly uncanny. Then it realized. She was annoyed, too. Espada breathed out. "You dropped this back there. I thought it'd be appropriate to hand it back to you." She was addressing her miss only, acting as if Espa wasn’t even there. The attitude gave her some slight relief. Being treated as if they were just a shadow on the ground. A weapon, sheathed behind the one supposed to wield it. This was safer. This was how it was supposed to go.
Even though every detail about this increasingly disastrous interaction was so wrong they could sense a chill in the air.
Ms. Ann snapped her head up, scowled at her. The fallen pack of tomato sauce was grabbed from Ciça's hands—roughly—before the other could even properly hand it to her. No surprise in there. She shoved the item inside another bag. Hastily. It fell down.
"There. Delivered it. Happy now? Espa, grab that fucking—ugh, that fucking sauce. Put it back inside."
"Yes, miss."
There was, of course, no need to be so antagonistic to Ciça. Aside from the throbbing ache visibly building up behind her eyes. Ms. Ann's wrath sometimes had unlucky, undeserving victims. That was how it worked. She felt bad for Ciça. It hadn’t wanted for her to be on the receiving end of it. But it hoped that'd make her go away.
Espa died inside a little when she didn't.
"You could easily pick it up," she saw her crossing her arms. The weapon had already bent down to fulfill the order. She had to let Ciça be behind her to make it work. They felt their skin crawl. "You’re sitting closer to it, don't even need to get up. Why are you so blunt with her?"
Their breath hitched. They'd just been acknowledged. The illusion of safety, of getting out of this without a scratch to anyone, faded like mist under the sun.
Outside, a heavy, louder rush of water came down. Like a balloon had popped off. It was continuous, oppressive, scratching the supermarket’s metal rooftop like it wanted to tear a whole into its barriers and invade. More ran to the ground, thickly swimming through the concrete surrounding them. A moat.
"You don’t act like you know better than me," the handler hissed, in tune with the rain. She massaged the spot between her eyes. Another bad sign. She was making it worse. Espa couldn’t help but actually tense up. Ciça. Just go away. Please. Couldn’t she sense the danger? The older woman stayed firm in her spot, some kind of foolish determination in her eyes Espa couldn't quite point the cause of nor understand. "Get going," Ann gestured to the raining outdoors. The sauce pack between its fingers was smooth, a red color. Bright. Vivid. It shoved it inside the sack with the rest of the food. "I'm not in the mood for little stunts like you. Get. Out."
They wished they could tell her to go, too. They wished they could convince Ms. Ann to just drop it.
But not a word left Espa's mouth. They didn't speak out of turn.
The air stretched out with an uncomfortable silence. The noise of the downpour outside filled its ears. Espa could feel Ciça glancing down at her, worried eyes glued on their back. It didn't close its eyes. In. Hold. Out. From the pause, the way she drew her breath, she seemed to want and say something else.
Espa couldn't describe its relief when she didn't.
"As you wish," she yielded, rolling her eyes. "I'm not in the mood for the likes of you either. Good week."
The cold seeping under her words was a little unsettling. Espa felt a little small. She didn't look at them again after leaving to wait out the weather on another corner of the parking lot. Away from them.
Away. It felt dizzy. But away was good.
Splatters of water swam down on the edges of the parking lot. Away from them. But Ciça would get wet. It didn’t look.
Ms. Ann tsked as she left, huffing a load of air through her nose.
It could feel itself getting a headache, too. It should probably eat when they got home.
The rain still took long to clear.
--
Gisele was nursing a sore ego and sore elbows when the sun came back at the sky. She was much more achey than she should be. She found it that it was extremely easy, lately, for her body to bruise. If she had to put a finger on it, it was the lack of nutrients. Or the stress. Or the lack of sun. Or maybe the poor sleep, who knows. She couldn’t remember the last time she had an actually comfortable night now that she thought about it. She wished she could google it, but, of course, she could not. She had had so many little questions she'd previously been able to look up on the back of her mind, now discarded as soon as they popped up. There was no window to the outer world here.
She barely had an idea of what day it was. Trying to come up with an answer gave her a headache. Though most things were prone to give her a headache. Any kind of ache, really. That wasn’t any special.
Gi thought she should ask Espa. Espa had access to a calendar. Probably. They had some sort of schedule. Right? They must know about it. But Espa had gone out. She felt her eyes burning. Ignored it. She’d done Ann’s food by now, because she at least had access to the hour. The table was empty and cleaned out of all the ingredients she’d used. So was the sink. Her stupid plate of pasta was waiting by the balcony, so she could see it first thing when she came back and wouldn’t have time for yelling at her for not having cooked her stupid fucking food. She’d have put it in the fridge otherwise. Though it wasn’t like she cared. It could spoil in the heat if it was up to her.
Gisele let out a heavy sigh under the table. Even though she had barely cooked something for herself that morning—no appetite. Not after that last beating she’d seen. Even after it’d been days. She had a distant notion that she probably should eat more, but—it was not what was on her mind right then.
She could only think about how Espa hadn’t eaten.
Breakfast was her only actual meal of the day. Gi laid spread out on the floor, enjoying her break. They always seemed so happy for breakfast. Why was Ann so mean? Today they didn't get to eat a single thing. Not actual, homemade food. Not even those ugly, disgusting, icky blobs of beige they called “rations”.
Little splatters had come in from the open windows. She should probably dry them, but her whole body ached. And the floor was so comfortable and cool.
The handler had gotten annoyed at some stupid little thing, too, as always, because there was always some stupid little thing to get annoyed at, and last night had also denied Espa their dinner. Two meals skipped in a row. All Ann’s fault. Always her fault. She hated her. Gisele closed her eyes. The sun shone increasingly bright across the window, but the top of the table she’d nested herself under was shielding her from it. It must be past noon already. Past noon, and no lunch for the house’s weapon. Past noon, and they still hadn’t come back. She wondered if the rain caught them on their way back.
A single tear streamed down her face, unwelcome. She turned on her side, caressing the still-sore spot on her cheek.
It wasn’t fair.
The sound of the gate sliding open beyond the garage sent a flinch through her body. Gi sat up, careful to not hit the top of her head. She stared at the door, carefully moving out from under the furniture. Closed.
(Not for long.)
She scrambled up from the floor, quickly going for the corridor to flee to the back of the house. Cowardly. But really, could she be blamed? The door from the laundry room closed softly before the living room's opened, and she breathed out in relief. Safe, for now.
She slid down with her back to the door. Her shoulders slumped, a whimper coming out of her as the throbbing behind her eyes had a sudden spike. Yeah. It wasn't fair at all. If she was home, she’d take an ibuprofen and a glass of water, but here, she—Gi narrowed her eyes to the lamp. She wondered for how long she’d have to endure all of this.
For how long.
For... how long.
The thought made her see white. She wiped it off her mind.
Dinner. She should really start planning dinner.
The handler had come inside and gotten mud on everything when she finally worked herself up to access the living room. Gisele silently cussed to herself. That demon. Could she not bother to just take off her damn sandals before dirtying all over the common area? Gi's knuckles grasped tight on the handle of the broom she used to sweep the floors off, a wet cloth attached to its end. The strokes were harsh. Annoyed.
She jumped when something touched her shoulder from behind.
"Stop. Look at me," Ann's voice. Gi's body obeyed before her mind could process. She tensed, painfully so, turning her neck to look back at the woman. She was frowning. Her breath got stuck on her throat.
Fuck, fuck, shit, had she heard her swearing? Her stomach sank. She must’ve complained out loud. Shit. Shit, shit, sh—
Ann crossed her arms, said, "Espada. Did you see her going out?"
Gi blinked. Her heartrate was accelerated. She slowly, confused, took a glance at the door. Open. The garage beyond, empty. It felt like it’d been ages since the time she had approached that part of the house. She looked back at Ann.
Her veins felt as if they were being filled with ice, burning colder by the second. She swallowed. Shook her head.
The hand on her shoulder got tighter. Gisele flinched.
"Not right now, idiot," she scoffed. "This last week. Past month, actually. I wasn't home all the time," she told her, though Gi knew that. It was more as if she was reminding something to herself. Gi didn't like where this was going. She couldn't quite move. She wanted to get away from Ann. She could feel her hands shaking, her chest heaving, a little bit too fast, but couldn't feel air entering her lungs at all. That was wrong. That was wrong, right? "She's hiding something."
It took a few seconds to realize she was expected to reply to that. A palm met her cheek and sent it sideways as she didn't. The broom dropped to the floor. Gi's ears were ringing.
"Answer."
The air started to compress down on her, crushing. Gisele weakly struggled out of Ann's grip. Away from the danger. Begrudgingly, the handler let her. She sucked in a load of air. There was still not enough of it around her. It’d all run out, solidified, somehow. Gi sent a fearful stare towards her. "I—I don't think so," she tried, realizing she was shaking all over now. She set her jaw. Mindlessly picked up the fallen broom, fingers clasping tight onto its handle. Her eyes dropped to the ground. She didn't want to look at Ann's. "She's behaved," she muttered. It was half true. Gi didn't know many weapons, but even she could tell Espa was as up to standard as humanly possible. Even considering all her infractions. Or whatever they wanted to call it. Her mouth was dry. She gulped down to wet it. Said, "…She wouldn't go against you.” Ann had to know that, right? It was painfully obvious, as clear as day. She held the bloom closer to her body, instinctively taking a step back. Espa did go out when she wasn't looking, yes. But firstly, Gi was no snitch. She shivered at the thought of what Ann would do if she found that out. It made her knees go weak for a second, eyes flashing with the image of the last beatdown. She was forcing out air before she could realize it.
And, really, she did believe in what she was saying. Mostly. Maybe reminding the handler of it would sate her suspicions. Espa was too well-behaved for her own good. Wherever the little walks she gave during the day or evening were to, she thought the handler had negative reason to worry. Unfortunately. It did make her wonder what was it that they did all the time, sneaking away at the slightest opportunity, but—well. When it came down to it, Gi also wanted to run.
She didn't tell Ann that. The handler kept staring at her, as if waiting for more. She drew her shoulders up. The moment stretched out to eternity, before, finally, Ann broke it. She gave a tired sigh, quitting. A sound of dissatisfaction. She couldn’t help but freeze up in place and brace. Only when her steps receded into the hall Gisele’s brain actually caught up to the fact she had left.
The girl took a step back. Another. She leaned against the nearest wall, the broom drawn defensively in front of her. A shield. She covered her mouth to avoid making a noise.
On today's episode of "Sami wants to convert everyone into liking Brazilian food", the snacks Ann bought for herself at the start of the chapter, the coxinha and the cheese bun, respectively, are very tasty you should try them out if you can :)
