“Uh, Boss?” Carewhumper lifted their head from their work and turned around to glare at the subordinate who’d interrupted them.
“Do you need something?”
“Yeah uh- you see-“
“Speak up, if this is important.”
“It is, your uh- ‘pet’ arrived.” Carewhumper rolled their eyes. So the dog arrived, big deal!
“Okay? And? You truly can’t take care of a Labrador for a few hours while I work? My business is incredibly important and-“
“No, boss, I’m sorry but there’s some kind of mistake. They sent a person in a kennel.”
Now that had Carewhumper’s attention. They stood, abandoning their work and moving past their employee.
“Show me.” Did Whumper intend to send a person? Did Whumper think Carewhumper would enjoy this? They would need a thorough ‘talking to’ if they thought this would be okay.
Thanks to everyone who stayed patient with me regarding Tyler's story. Here we are.
Tyler's facility is raided by the police.
[Masterpost]
Content (warnings): Implied noncon, facilty whump, whumper turned whumpee, whumpee covering for whumper (idk if thats a thing to tag but anyway), (sort of) parental caretaker.
Time passed differently within the white walls of WRU. It affected even the handlers, who had strict instructions to leave their watches in their lockers. If they had to check the time, they could use their work-equipped tablets outside the cells. If they needed to tell time in a session, they set vibration alerts in their smart bracelets or earpieces. And even for handlers, it was bad enough. Tyler Parker remembered countless moments of leaving the building after work, uniform switched for jeans and T-shirt, squinting his eyes overwhelmingly confused by the position of the sun.
He'd have thought, that experience would have helped him. Given him ways to measure the passage of time without outside cues.
It didn't.
In the beginning, he counted. Handlers. Beatings. Showers. Orgasms.
The voice counting in his head wasn't his own. It was hers. 238's. She'd counted, too. Her unit had been him. He'd caught her doing it, her lips moving, when she was sleep-deprived and high on something. He'd punished her, for wanting to know something that wasn't hers to know. She should only know one thing, he'd said, and that was how to be good for her betters.
She'd stopped counting, then. At least, he hadn't caught her again.
He wondered, at what exact number that had been. What her count would be, by now. At what number it ceased to matter.
Tyler stopped earlier than she had. But then again, maybe she'd stopped twice, too. Maybe she'd thought the same thoughts before the Drip. Maybe he would, too, after. He almost laughed hysterically, thinking about it. About going through all this, again. Just that the people torturing him would be strangers then, the very same people whom he knew now.
People like Jared Grimm, Head Handler of the facility, Tyler's supervisor. Had Tyler counted, he'd know if it was the second time, or the third, that it was Grimm's hand in his neck, pressing him onto the padded table. Maybe even the fourth.
Grimm wasn't sadistic in his fucking. He was methodical, cold, detached. Working through a routine.
"Fucking. Idiot," Grimm breathed into his ears between thrusts. "It didn't. Have to be."
It did, Tyler thought, as a strained whimper escaped his lips. It did have to be.
"Jared," someone said, far away. "There's a call from the reception, they need you."
The hand in his hair vanished. The weight on his back. The breath in his neck. The strain in his ass.
Grimm didn't even slap his butt. He was just gone, leaving Tyler exposed and cold.
Not for long though. "Hey, pretty boy," Dinah Richardson purred. "You look so lonely."
Tyler closed his eyes.
Time passed.
-
Jared Grimm stared at his knuckles, stark white as he balled his fist on top of his desk. He willed himself to unclench his hand. He was head of this facility, he reminded himself. He had worked hard to get to this position. He was capable. He had it under control.
"Say that again," he asked into his phone.
"The police," the receptionist repeated flatly. "FBI. They're here with a warrant."
Jared exhaled sharply. "Let them in. I'll meet them in the hallway."
*
The officer in charge was a tall woman, around his age, late forties, he guessed. Long, brown hair that started graying at the temples, tied back in a pony tail. A vaguely familiar face. And a chilling stare that bore right into his eyes.
"Mr Grimm," she said. "I hope you don't intend to stop me or my colleagues. We have a warrant. And anything you do to hinder me will only make your situation much worse."
Jared raised his hands in an inviting gesture. "No, of course. We fully support law enforcement." Financially, he thought grimly. Enough to avoid situations like this, he'd wagered. This woman didn't seem to have gotten the memo, though. He forced his lips to curl into a polite smile. "What can I do for you?"
"I am here to arrest Ms Carly Thompson and Mr Tyler Parker, both WRU employees."
Jared blinked.
Parker. Fuck. No. That couldn't be a coincidence. "I…" Jared's mouth felt dry. He forced himself to keep his gaze level, not to double check the state of his uniform pants. He hadn't even had the time to wash Parker off of him. "I… I'm sorry, I don't know everyone's schedules, I… I can confirm they both work here, but I'm actually not sure they're in today. It's pretty early, and-"
"I am sure." Her smile was icy. "Your receptionist has already told me that Ms Thompson checked in for duty this morning. As for Mr Parker, he seemingly didn't, but I… I actually do have a hunch we can find him here, Sir. And that you know exactly where he is." She folded her arms. "Get. Me. Tyler. Parker. As in, Tyler Parker himself, him able to recall his name, his mother, his past, and the crimes he committed." She lifted her chin. "Not trainee pet 002243."
Jared flinched violently. What the fuck. She couldn't know. Not what happened here, not even vaguely. But definitely not in detail. Not in this detail.
The muscles in her jaw tensed at his reaction. She'd guessed. A shot in the dark. And his reaction had just confirmed it. Fuck.
How could she have made such a precise guess, though? She knew his number. Nobody who wasn't in this building right now did. How-
"We are in possession of a video that has been filmed in this facility." Her voice was hard. "It shows Mr Parker and Ms Thompson drugging and torturing Ms Zsuzsanna - Suzy - Kowalski, threatening to make her into a pet. Ms Kowalski had been reported missing some days ago, then showed up in a hospital with no memory and serious brain damage. She isn't in a condition be interrogated. But we have proof, on this video, that all of this happened in here, in your facility, Mr Grimm."
It couldn't be. They had people for this, people that made sure WRU management knew before the authorities showed up in one of the facilities. And they would, he told himself. WRU could set this right. They always did.
Only question was, who would the company let take the fall for it. And this cop? She'd just put his name on top of that list.
Fuck.
This time, Jared controlled his face better. "I don't believe that's-"
"Mr Grimm," she cut him off. "Again. I do believe that. That video is… not shy on the details. And I would love to bring you and your entire fucking company down for it. I'm a very good investigator, you know."
Jared busied his fingers with straightening his jacket and tried a confident smile. It didn't work out the way he wanted. Still. There'd been something in her phrasing, something not entirely final. "I feel like you are going to present me with another option."
She raised an eyebrow. "Only if I get both suspects, in a state that allows them to be tried. And if you need to go make an immediate call to make sure Mr Parker is taken off from whichever drugs you use to mess people up, please, do so. Because I swear, if he doesn't remember his mother's face, it's not him going to jail, it's *you*, Grimm, personally. And I'm not going to stop at that. I might not be as good as you and your company are at destroying a life, but for you, I'll certainly do my fucking best."
"I…" Grimm stared at her. She was dead serious. "I… I think I didn't get your name, Officer-?"
"Ashley Browne." She smirked. "I didn't take my wife's name."
Her wife. That's how he knew her, how that face seemed familiar. There'd been a photo they'd taken from Parker's and the journalist's apartment, the two of them with his mother and another woman, who- Yeah. That tracked.
"Parker," he mumbled. "That would be your wife's name, wouldn't it?"
"Indeed it would," she confirmed. "So you better hand my stepson over right now, or I will make sure we turn around every last brick in this building and see what else we find."
"Oh no. No no." He shook his head. "You don't have the authority to do that."
"You want to bet on it?" She lifted her chin and raised the paper in her hand. "While we're here, with this warrant, my guys will listen to me, not you. And I'll have them turn on their body cams. Let's see how much we can find - how much we can film - until your bosses call my bosses and my bosses call me; such a hassle, only with the same old result that you need fall guys and Carly Thompson and Tyler Parker must be it. The more we see, though, the more names add to the list. Higher up the ranks."
"I-" Jared's mind raced. It couldn't possibly be. Carly would keep her mouth shut, with the right payment, just sit her time, be released, take the money and burn through it in some seedy beach hotel at the other end of the world. Parker however. The stupid asshole was a fucking liability. The attack on Alex. The pet lib journalist. That video appearing from nowhere. They should've put him on the Drip right when they'd brought him in. They should've shipped him out to another facility. They should've -
They shouldn't have played this lightly. But they had.
And now, the police officer in front of him nodded at her uniformed colleagues, lifted her hand in a sweeping gesture. "Search every room, every cell, every office. Turn on your cams, get a good look on every face you can find, trainee, employee, service worker, every single face, until we've found our guys. Clear?"
Jared had no choice. That woman was a fucking nuisance, but he couldn't take any other risk.
"Wait," Jared called. "I… I think I know where to find them. I'll make a call."
Browne stepped back and lifted her hands. "Good. Lead the way."
-
It was even worse than she'd expected. And Ashley had seen the videos. She had expected bad.
The boy - even at 24, even a head taller than herself and twice her weight, she'd never brought herself to seeing him as a grown man - was curled up on the oddly colorful tiles of a shower room. He was naked, his light skin mottled with bruises of various colors and shapes. Some from weapons, bats or batons, she figured. Most from hands.
She had to force herself to stand still. Not to fall to her own knees besides him, to run a hand through his wet blond strands, to hug him and shield him. Not to draw her gun and empty it into the smirking handlers around them.
"Our handlers sometimes get handsy with each other, after a stressful shift," Chief Handler Grimm said from behind her. His voice had a nervous pitch to it, but still, she swore she could hear a kind of glee in it. The knowledge, that this blatant lie, like so many others, would stay unchallenged. "We condemn any sexual relations at the workplace, but- I guess you know how it is."
"You don't get to assume what I know, Mr Grimm," she said flatly. "I'm a cop. What I know is what sexual assault looks like."
"It was consentual," another man said, and idly kicked a piece of soap over to Tyler. Ashley flinched, when it hit his side, the boy too weary to react. "Tell them, T. We had fun."
"It was consentual." Tyler's voice was all but a hoarse croak. Ashely's stomach turned. "It was."
"See?" Grimm said to her, and to him, "Clean yourself up, Parker, and get dressed."
Tyler struggled to push himself up to his knees, his hand shaking as he weakly reached out for the piece of soap.
It took Ashley a second to remember her duty. To remember that she was here to betray all her beliefs in law and order. Making a deal that was far from any justice. Saving her wife's boy. Who - given what Tara had told them - might as well have deserved all of this. But Ashley wouldn't be the judge of that.
She was here for Diane. She was here to get him out. Whatever the price.
"Tyler Parker," she said, a part of her wondering when she'd addressed him like that the last time. Tyler Frederick Parker, you call that cleaning up your room? It felt like yesterday. It felt like another lifetime. "Tyler. You are under arrest."
Sorry for the wait, y'all. I'm bringing 479 and Dennison back finally!
Dax Del Mar Masterlist
Tagging @outofangband @batfacedliar-yetagain @painful-pooch - let me know if you want to be added/removed!
CW: BBU, possesive whumper, gaslighting over memories
***
479 stands in the center of the white room, his hands clutching the hem of his white shirt. He’s nervous, he’s so, so nervous. He knows he messed up, he knows he wasn’t his Handler’s perfect boy, but he doesn’t want to face his punishment. He wishes he was back in the dance room working on his turns and leaps, but instead he’s here.
“Take it from the top,” Handler Dennison says, tapping his pen against his lips. He has a clipboard in his lap, where he’s taking notes for the official incident report. Or at least, that’s what 479 thinks he’s doing . He can’t read the paper to know what’s going on. “Start from the beginning and tell me everything.”
479 takes a deep breath, running his hand through his messy black hair. He doesn’t want to repeat what happened this morning. He doesn’t want to disappoint Handler Dennison, but he was given an order and he has to follow through. “I woke up and had my nutrient loaf, Sir. Then they came and got me for my dance lesson. While I was walking, I saw a man…he looked so familiar…” He trails off, trying to remember the man’s face, but now, hours later, it’s all just a blur.
“And then?” Handler Dennison prompts. “And then what did you do?”
“I had a false memory.” 479 clears his throat and the ground is blurry beneath him. “I remembered flashing lights and loud music…I remembered someone taking my hand and pulling me outside. I remember feeling free. And then I saw the man and he was kissing me.” He sniffles, wiping his eyes. “Did I…did I live outside? Have I seen the outside?”
“No, you haven’t.” He makes some notes on his clipboard. “You’ve always been here. You’ve always been 479. You haven’t kissed any other men than me, have you?”
The tone in Handler Dennison’s voice…it’s dark, it’s dangerous, it’s too much. Nothing good ever comes when he sounds like that. 479 has watched him make other pets scream, watched him draw blood. He doesn’t like when Handler Dennison sounds like that. “No, Handler. I haven’t kissed any other men than you.”
“And you’re not going to kiss any other men than me, right?”
“Well…my owner, Handler,” 479 stammers out. He’s being made for his owner. He’s supposed to be good for his owner.
Handler Dennison scoffs and waves his hand. “Right, your owner. Sure. I don’t care about your prospective owner right now, slut.”
479’s cheeks burn with the casual, degrading term.
Handler Dennison clicks his pen once, twice, three times. “But you didn’t just have a false memory. You did something, baby. What did you do? Tell me.”
“Handler…” 479 squirms around, running his hand through his hair again. He doesn’t like this, but he doesn’t have a choice. “I made a mistake, Handler.”
“What kind of mistake, baby?”
“The false memory…it made me do something. It made me…” Shame. That’s all 479 feels is shame. Handler Dennison has been good to him. He’s made him better, and all he gets for it is 479’s misbehaviour. “I grabbed onto the man. I begged him to save me.”
“Save you from what?”
“Save me from…from here.”
Handler Dennison tilts his head. “What’s there to save you from, baby? You’re lucky. You get food and water and shelter. You’re treated kindly, not like Handler Hanford’s trainees. You get treats and you get to go to dance classes and you get all of my attention. What exactly do you need saving from?”
479 crumples at Handler Dennison’s feet, gripping the man’s legs. “I don’t need saving, Handler,” he sobs, his chest so tight and empty. “I like it here. I like you. I need to be good for you.” There’s a difference between wanting and needing. He knows he needs to be good for Handler Dennison. But wanting…
He wants it too because he wants to be touched and held and loved.
Handler Dennison holds 479’s chin, forcing the boy to look up at him. “Oh, sweetheart. It’s okay. I know that false memory must have been distressing you. I don’t want to punish you if you promise me you won’t ask to leave again.”
479 nods as fast as he can. He doesn’t want to be a bad pet. He doesn’t want to be punished.
Handler Dennison lifts 479 onto his lap, holding the boy to his chest and rubbing his back. “There, there. It’s okay. I promise. I’ve got you. Just relax.”
479 leans against his handler, his heart racing. Safe…he has to feel safe. This is right. This is the way things are supposed to be.
And yet, he can’t help thinking about the way the stars sparkled in his false memory…about the way it felt to be free.
Just imagining a whumper with an (in)human weapon whumpee. Maybe the Whumpee was born in a time of war, and the whumper was tasked with helping Whumpee harness their powers for ‘good’.
The Whumpee is maladjusted and uneducated (unless you count military propaganda as ‘education’). The Whumpee is provided for… but is deeply unhappy. They need somebody to ‘understand’ and help them learn who they are. To be taught their purpose in this time of need. A vulnerable, fragile individual.
Maybe the Whumper has lost a lot in this war. Maybe they’ve retired from active duty, and brought into this experiment because of their expertise and hands-on experience with the enemy. Maybe they’re kinder to Whumpee as a result. Just a lost little creature, in a world of much bigger fish. Who can’t relate to that? (carewhumper vibes?)
Or maybe the Whumper is a higher up, with a much bigger vision than the Whumpee could ever imagine. Somebody with uncompromising expectations. Who will see what makes this weapon tick, and how to crush the enemy with them. This ball of nerves and untapped potential brought before them, like a lamb to the slaughter, and what an important slaughter it will be.
I *think* this is from Involuntary? Same as Trouble...? The trainee number is different though...
The hum of the fluorescent lights is always audible in the bunk room. He never noticed the sound anywhere else. In an office there would be phones ringing, fingers tapping over keyboards. In a store all the shoppers would be talking, cart wheels rattling, registers beeping away. Anywhere else, the sounds of life would push it into insignificance. If this room burst into flame, there would be no lives to save, only assets.
It’s not a low enough frequency to be a white noise. Even if he can stop himself from fixating on it for a few moments, he always snaps back to teeth-grating awareness of the constant buzz, like it’s an insect that has burrowed into his skill. An intentional, ceaseless assault to their senses. The level of light is probably optimal for operating. It feels wrong for it to be so damn bright while they can’t make a peep a decibel above the hum itself. This kind of restraint belongs in pitch darkness, when there’s no telling what could be disturbed or instigated with even an audible exhale.
The buzzer for wake up reverberates through his head, his molars, his vertebrae. Every morning starts with a tightness behind his forehead, a stale feeling as he opens his eyes. The cold, dry air doesn’t help. He’s always on the verge of a migraine, like he’s parched but for darkness, for quiet, for rest.
Anyone who breaks over the lack of sleep under the humming fluorescents is demoted. ‘925 went back a few times himself for having nightmares that disrupted his fellow trainees. The level down is one meal a day instead of two. Even less sleep. An extra pill or two in the daily cocktail to help with compliance. Back to diverse therapies individually tailored to support the unique acclimation needs of each recruit. Barf.
‘925 swings his legs off the edge of the cot, pushing himself to a seat on the plastic, wipe-clean mesh. He slips his feet into his rubber-soled prison shoes. Most of the other trainees are meticulously folding their “blankets”. One molecule away from the paper on doctor’s office exam beds and only three feet long. He wonders how many you’d have to braid together to make a decent rope. The answer is too many. By design.
*Notice 5/13/2025: this chapter is under revision and will be edited and partially rewritten for quality purposes and to smooth out continuity errors.
Summary: Approximately two weeks into his imprisonment in the basement, The Aid has a flashback of the day that changed his life forever. (Backstory. Milder chapter.)
General content warnings here, rest in tags
Masterlist | Backstory | A03
The only upside to being bone-exhausted from starvation and getting his ass ground into a pulp is that The Aid spends most of the time passed out. Better to not be burdened with the plight of conscious thought, he reasons.
Besides, nothing beats a depression nap. Given the circumstances, it’s decent sleep, or at least as decent as he could ever hope for. Just ignore the pounding migraine, partially severed ankle, grumbling belly, and broken body pulsing with compounding jolts of pain and disassociate—easy-peasy, lemon squeezy.
When awake (a travesty), his brain feels like microwaved instant mashed potatoes. That’s the best comparison he’s thought of in this muddled state; he’s contemplated it for hours. All starch, no real substance. And what do you know, both pasty white and activated by water.
He’s etched marks on the concrete basement wall above his head with a small chip of cement, faint, illegible lines he can’t see in the dark, to count the number of days he’s been down here. Fingers run the length of the make-shift day tracker. Whatever number it is, he knows it’s not accurate. He’s sure he lost a day or two from being strung up in some hellish stress position only the Devil himself would think of from the ceiling—or tied to the old wooden blood-stained chair that’s given him a dozen splinters—but at least it’s an estimate.
He thinks he counts 15. Counts again. Comes up with 17. Again. 14.
So this is what losing your mind feels like.
Mix-matched numbers are the least of his worries, but at least that’s tangible. Something he knows is actually there, a tether to the physical world.
The glowing white eyes spying on him in the dark are more frequent now. The creature he tells himself isn’t real lingers in the rings of pitch-black shadows. It waits. Feeds on him when he’s sleeping. That’s an opportune moment for both of them, the only time they equally enjoy. He wishes he was unconscious right now, but a rapid heart rate and feverish sweating make that impossible.
His body reflexively stiffens against the throbbing pulse radiating from the near-perfect hole in his mid-thigh. Leg muscles convulse, unleashing a searing, hot wave of pain that spiders out from the gash like molten lava, bathing his entire leg in a fiery agony.
He groans, letting the tears fall freely. Teeth clamp shut. He rolls around on the rotten-smelling mattress stained in every shade of bodily fluid, trying to partially distract himself and partially take a walk-it-out-approach—move against the pain.
That makes it worse.
Hands clench into fists.
He screams.
Static.
He imagines the floating particles as something wonderful, something childish and playful like magical fairy dust. His eyes follow the proverbial yellow brick road and roll over to the old wooden workbench, hoping to find the entrance to the Emerald City. A streak of soft sunlight from the single basement window illuminates part of the wood. Blinking, he tries to focus blurry vision from poor eyesight—eyes adjust as much as they can without his glasses Wyatt tells him was a privilege—not a right—to have. One he no longer deserves.
Something shines against the direct light like a bright star on a calm, cloudless night. He misses the sky. The Sun. moon. Stars.
Could it be—did he really make it?
He squints. Focus.
It’s the metal of the drill bit the sadistic man used on him yesterday, reflecting a sparkle of light—chunks of his leg still lodged in the threading.
He gasps and jerks away. Stares at the desolate wall—at nothing, because nothing is better than a bad-something. Chest heaving, he coughs like he’s going to vomit, but there’s nothing but bile that comes up. He erupts in a fit of wailing until he makes himself sick, and his eyelids swell shut.
Drifting. Barely lucid.
Regret creeps into the cracks of subconscious.
Was it worth it?
He’s thought long and hard about that, too. A meager week-and-a-half of “freedom” only to be snatched up by border patrol and hauled back to his torturer.
No, not that—all of this. Selling himself, giving up what little was left of his human rights, getting hauled off to the other side of the country to live amongst wealthy slavers and transform into some fucking wind-up cymbal-banging monkey toy.
At first, it was a resounding “yes” without a shadow of a doubt.
Now? He’s not so sure.
Long are the days of luxurious pool parties with tasty appetizers, fruity drinks, weekend coastal getaways, and living la vida loca while pretending that people aren’t dying in droves from starvation, war, and disease—out of sight, out of mind, right?
He reminisces the time when his biggest adversary wasn’t a raging psychopath with a hard-on for blood, but were the sly, risqué glances and wondering manicured hands of his late Madame’s granddaughter he had playfully fended off under the distracted noses of every Sullivan family member who were none the wiser of their scandalous—albeit one-sided—encounters.
Should he have never gotten that one-way bus ticket that sealed his fate? Never disappeared late into the night while making peace with knowing he’d never see his surviving friends or family again? Turned away from those double-wide doors of the shiny all-glass Chattel Services Inc. building? Paid better notice to the old picket signs stuffed in the outside trash bins, bold letters warning that this was just corporate slavery hoarding much-needed resources from withering green zones? Masses succumbed to starvation as the government struggled to provide uncontaminated food and water. Yet, the slave trade persisted against all odds, unfazed by the global suffering. In the post-Nemaxys world, dying citizens held no value—but enslaved ones remained a lucrative commodity for the wealthy and powerful elite.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda—a damn awful game to play.
But it's not like he’s doing anything else.
****
The man behind the desk keeps smiling at him, which makes it incredibly difficult to fill out the 20-something-page intake form on the clipboard he’s holding. He knows the guy is trying to be friendly, make him feel at ease, and not think too hard about how he’s singing his life away to the highest bidder.
As he writes, his other hand keeps picking at a hangnail that’s starting to bleed a little bit, but he’s so fucking on edge and caught up in making sure his handwriting is legible enough that he doesn’t notice the dabble of blood smeared across his nail bed.
“Here,” a voice says. He looks up at the blonde man, who doesn’t look much older than him, holding a tissue out for him to grab.
The dumb expression on his face is evident enough for the man to clarify. “For your finger.”
He looks down. Notices the small bubble of red peaking over the partially bloody thumb.
He sounds surprised. “Oh, thanks.”
He dabs away the blood. His stomach grumbles; he hasn’t eaten anything since dinner last night, which feels like a lifetime ago. Nerves flutter. Fingers pick away at the now crumbled tissue clenched in his hand.
“We’ll get you some breakfast soon,” The man chirps. He looks up. The guy is still just watching him. Eyes dart around the page, he nibbles the inside of his lip.
“Low blood sugar, huh?”
“Um, I guess.” He doesn’t look up from the page, hoping he doesn’t appear rude.
“You’re shaking.” The man says this as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world and not as if there would be any other possible explanation.
Fuck, is this how it’s going to be here? Every single move monitored and scrutinized? He doesn’t think he can do this. He gulps and sets the clipboard at the edge of the desk. He needs a moment. He can’t believe he’s doing this—really doing this.
What the fuck is he doing?
The little voice in his head is screaming at him to get up and run the fuck out of here. Go back home. You don’t have to do this. There’s another way. You’ll think of something. This is insanity.
He grabs the small paper cup of water—the kind that’s too small even to be called a cup; disposable shot glass is more like it—and gulps the rest of it down. Meanwhile, the man studies him like a hawk. The guy’s eyes slide to the intake form. Before he registers what’s happening, the man grabs it and starts looking it over.
“I’m—I’m not done,” he stammers. God, he feels like an idiot. He hopes the man doesn’t ask him to clarify an indecipherable word from a shaky hand. Maybe he can blame it on the pen; it was one of those shitty off-brand Bic ballpoint pens you used to buy in packs at Dollar Tree.
The man’s eyes scan the lines of text when he stops and shoots him a grin. “This is great. You’re great. You’ll sell like a hot cake.”
The blood drains from his face, and his heart drops to his stomach, which feels like it just shriveled up in half a second and died inside him. It’s hard to come to terms with being sold—knowing that’s in his future, and apparently near future. Hypothetically, of course, he wants to be sold quickly, but hell, he’s only been here for not even 30 minutes and is still in denial of the last 12 hours that led him to this moment.
“And happy birthday! We’ll have to celebrate and get you some cake,” The man exclaims with a bright smile.
“Thanks,” he says quickly.
He doesn’t feel like celebrating. He’s too damn guilty to pretend to act happy about the big 18–legal adulthood, AKA the day the plan he’s been concocting for the last year-and-a-half came to fruition. How he just left everyone behind and vanished the day after his birthday, leaving nothing in his tracks but a sappy letter for his mom.
Has she read it yet? Is she and his little brother crying right now? Are they looking for him? Has she called his friends yet?
“Sexual orientation?” the man asks, breaking his run-on train of thought. The man quirks an inquisitive brow and slightly tilts his head as he looks at him with ocean-blue eyes that somehow seem familiar despite them being little more than strangers. His mind swirls as it does when he receives a message, a premonition. He shuts it off.
Focus. Sell yourself.
Where was he? Oh yeah—fuck, he left that part blank and told himself he’d come back to it once he thought of something to put.
He freezes. Fear-pricked skin tightens around brittle bones. Low beats pulse behind his eyes. His face is hot, palms sweat.
“Um. I-I…I don’t know?” His mouth feels dry. He’s suddenly so thirsty he’s sure he could drink a whole pool.
“Any experience, then? Hand stuff even?”
He thought he couldn’t be any more embarrassed, a grave miscalculation. Cheeks burning, his eyes dart to the file cabinet in the corner of the room with the dumb wish that he could telepathically absorb some of the cabinet’s gray to neutralize his rubescent skin tone. Maybe he could one day; he recently developed psychometry, bringing his ability total to four—a rare number to reach, even for a Mystic. What if he continued this roll and turned part chameleon in the face of danger, too?
He tries to gulp down the dry, invisible mass in his throat that won’t go away. Coughs a little bit, adding to the blatant awkwardness of the situation.
Smooth, always the charmer.
He doesn’t need to tap into his senses to know for damn sure the guy expects a candid answer; the uncomfortable silence is enough of an indication of that.
“No. Look, I’m not here for that type of posting,” he sheepishly admits, fearing the revelation will bring down his assessment price.
“No shame. Just standard questions are all.” The man continues to smile without missing a beat—is this guy even real? It should put him at ease, but it does anything but. He knows through and through that the man has no malicious intentions, but that doesn’t detract from the icy fear that continues to sprawl his veins.
The man’s still reading the form, so he shuffles over to the water cooler in the guy’s private office and starts chugging cup after cup of water, hoping the movement will bring a sliver of relief. Thank the universe that the water is chilled, and after five shot glass-sized “cups,” he thinks he may have brought his body temperature back down to a reasonable degree.
The next question comes from nowhere. “Do you wear contacts?”
“Um, no. They make my eyes itchy,” he explains.
“Open to Lasik?” The man shoots back.
Is having shitty eyesight and wearing glasses really a deal-breaker?
“Um, I’ve never thought about it before? Maybe? I guess.”
The man nods subtly, blue eyes roaming up and down his body with intent and professional curiosity. The man’s face freezes in a distant, hard-to-place emotion—lost in the tail end of a half-considered afterthought, one too outlandish to share. He feels vulnerable, exposed—as if the man sees him on a molecular level. It's too close for comfort; he wonders if the man possesses X-ray vision, a piercing gaze like that is reserved for Mystics alone.
Maybe he does, perhaps he is—is he a Mystic, too?
No, he could read this guy like a children’s picture book. Most other Mystics had the mental discipline to evade his mind-probing.
The guy’s just doing his job, and low and behold, he’s not just a personality hire.
“You’re lucky you’re cute. You got that innocent boy next door look going on that clients love,” the man vaguely gestures to him, a cupped hand props up his chin as he assumes a thinker’s pose and drums against his cheek.
He turns away to hide his cherry-hued blushing, which he’s sure the man is well aware of. He’s never been one to take a compliment well. And it's not like any guy wants to be called “cute and innocent.” There’s something secretly dirty about that image, like he’s a thing to be corrupted and turned to the dark side. A test. Something to break. Nor does he like the implication of the sentence, how it’s worded as if to say his perceived looks, taken at face value, outweigh what the man is about to say.
“Normally, people want a blank canvas, a clean slate, something they can mold into their own making. But you come with history, a distinct character. I can spin that. The right person will adore you.” The man’s speaking about him like he’s a fucking spec on an appliance.
He knows what the man is referring to, even if he thinks himself too polite to say something directly about it out in the open. This round-about way feels worse, though, like it’s the only thing people see when they look at him. It took him his whole life to look past the scars on his face and learn to love his crooked smile. He’s never been torn apart like this, dissected piece by piece, and talked about in terms of marketability. He doesn’t like it—actually, he hates it, but if this is what it takes to get the big bucks, he’ll have to learn to deal.
Keep your eye on the prize. It’s your job to save them. They need the money more than you need your pride.
He sits back down and notices the plaque on the guy’s desk: Bryce Wright, Mystic Handler. Yeah, he looks like a Bryce. I bet he was the all-star it-boy quarterback with the matching blonde bombshell cheerleader girlfriend.
He’s doing what he always does when he’s uncomfortable—nitpicking everything to death. It gives him some ounce of control he’s always desperately clawing at, even if it’s a figment of his imagination. An illusion of lost agency. It's a bad habit, a hard one to break. A mental loop. He stops, knowing that spiraling is the last thing he should do right now.
He’s sure the receptionist told him the man’s name, but he didn’t have the wherewithal to let it soak into his brain then—he was too busy fighting off his umpteenth panic attack of the day.
By the time the man, Bryce, called him in here, he focused every iota of attention on filling out the damn novel-length form to his detriment, clipping the corner of the door frame and then running into the chair on the way in here. After that embarrassment wore off and he finally mustered the courage for a glance, he was automatically distracted by Bryce’s persistent plastic smile.
Filling out the rest of the form took way longer than he thought it would. Medical history, diet, skill sets, education, accolades, exercise levels, hobbies, family members—the whole sha-bang. Even questions regarding his mother’s pregnancy with him, which he didn’t know the answers to.
These people don’t play. This was some serious shit. He’s in deep.
He slides the clipboard back to Bryce, who gives him a predictable cheesy grin and scans over the rest of the pages.
“We don’t get many like you coming through these doors; you’re a rare breed. Far from the typical one-trick pony claiming to see auras,” Bryce says quietly, eyes still scanning every filled-in answer. It sounded like an outside thought, but he could sense Bryce was covertly prodding for a reply, a subtle test to feel him out and see how well he could read a person.
It appears that “telepathic empath” scribbled alongside the “Ability” line caught Bryce’s attention. Good.
“Thanks?”
Bryce shoots him a thoughtful smirk, something that’s supposed to read as reassuring. “Yeah, that’s a compliment. Not too good at receiving those, are you?”
“Guess not,” he chuckles, fiddling with his hands in his lap, feeling no better from the clarification.
Bryce taps on the corner of his desk and surveys him like he still can't decide. Expression reads, what am I going to do with you? He can feel the man’s tangled thoughts, the confusion woven into them, how he’s at the center of it. If he weren’t preoccupied with swallowing the burn in his throat and resisting the urge to drum on the chair’s armrest anxiously, he’d be able to get a better read.
His bottom lip gets sucked in between his teeth before he notices what he’s doing and forces his mouth to twist to the side in a look he hopes passes as a friendly—but shy—half-grin. Sell innocent boy next door.
“I know, I’m a bit of an enigma,” he jokes, finally meeting Bryce eye-to-eye. At that, Bryce smiles—genuinely this time.
He’s slowly winning the guy over; he can feel it in the way only he can.
“That you are my friend,” Bryce chuckles, retrieving two pens from the pen cup on his desk and holding each between a thumb and index finger.
Bryce flashes him a toothy grin and angles his head, “High intuition, huh? Tell me which one is my favorite.”
He holds the man’s stare, glances at the pens, then blows an all-knowing short breath through his nose. “Neither. The one on your desk is.” He tilts his head, nodding at the customized cherry wood fountain pen with Bryce’s name engraved on the broad side of the cap.
“This is a Graduation present from dear old Grandpa Joel, who isn’t with us anymore. My condolences,” he confirms matter-of-factly without delay. He doesn’t know how quickly he picked up on this; object readings usually require more mental effort.
Bryce and Grandpa Joel must’ve been really close; that pen has a lot of energy.
Bryce falters a minute, lets the pens drop, then roll off his desk. His blue eyes turn into saucers, his brows crease, and his face freezes in disbelief.
After a few beats, Bryce’s wide-eyed look of shock morphs into a nervous chuckle. “Well, shit…shit!” Bryce shakes his head, eyes lighting up with hopeful promise as he blows his lips out as if to let off steam.
At least he’s easy to impress.
“And are you firm with your preferred designation as a Domestic Aide?” Bryce asks, an edge of doubt weighing on his tone.
“Yeah, I’m best at one-on-one stuff. Unless you think my talents would better serve elsewhere?” He offers, trying to be cooperative while also standing his ground. He’s read enough horror stories of Handlers talking incoming trainees into positions they didn’t want to know he had to be careful during the intake negotiation. He doesn’t think Bryce is the type to persuade him into doing something he doesn’t want, but one could never be too cautious with these things; this was his entire life on the line. The last thing he wants is to gamble his fate away to someone who wouldn’t appreciate his abilities and would force him to play a role as something he wasn’t.
The man sighs, rubs his chin, and then perks up at the last second. “Forgive me for being rather forward about this, sensitive topic and all, but would you be willing to take a vow of celibacy? Some clients are looking for a, how should I say it…sexless help—someone non-threatening. Especially a male. Especially a Mystic. There’s a demand for them. You know, the type someone would trust their children and wives around and not have to worry about. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you fit the bill perfectly—I mean, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want, but it may help seal the deal for some. An assurance of sorts. Just something to think about.” Bryce sucks his teeth as he repositions, now slouching in the big office chair and fiddling with his expensive-looking Grandpa Joel pen. It’s hard to tell who’s more nervous.
He never imagined having zero sex appeal would ever come in handy, let alone help snag a future posting. This tidbit wasn’t on any of the forums he spent the last year combing through. He supposes it’s an industry secret, and the PR team has been hard at work scrubbing the internet for anything deemed an insider trade secret.
“You mean like a nun?” He jokes.
Bryce snorts, relief softening his features. “Yeah, sure. What do you say? You up for playing Mother Teresa?” The man pauses, leans in as if disclosing a secret, and says in a hushed tone, “Doesn’t have to be forever.”
That characteristic cheesy smile morphs into a sly smirk, eyebrows slightly hike up, a look that screams Machiavellian-level traitor. Weird, but well-meaning. Figures it’s part of some eldritch-esque man-to-man joke that didn’t land since his telepathic connectors are all screwy from the wake of anxiousness.
The last sentence rattles around in his head. There’s a brief pause where he weighs his options and pretends to consider saying no, like he ever imagined an alternative reality that didn’t end in him dying as a happily un-kissed virgin.
His lips twist to the side in a half-smirk. “Put me in, coach.”
Bryce pumps a triumphant fist and lets out a loud “Woot woot!”—a battle cry he intuitively recognizes from Bryce's glory days on the football field. For a fleeting instant, he sees a flashback: a sweaty, younger Bryce basks in the crowd's adoration, teammates swarming around him in excitement. Through Bryce’s eyes, he sees the giant, illuminated scoreboard with a Viking mascot looming in the background.
He just won them the game.
They’re going to the Championships.
Only they didn’t; the next day the outbreak claimed the lives of half his teammates.
He pulls away, and settles back in his body, Bryce none the wiser of the glimpse of his past he stole.
“Alright, that’s what I like to hear!” The man stands up from behind the desk and stretches out, his back popping as he throws his upper body into warm-up twists. “Now, let’s get this notarized and get you your new ID number. We’re honored to have you with us, Mr. Rossmoore.”
Bryce sticks a hand out. Across the desk, he quickly pockets the deteriorating sweat-drenched tissue he had to pry from his palm and meets the man with a tight shake—that, right there. The moment over six years ago he wishes he could go back in time and prevent from ever happening.
The moment that, despite it feeling so completely wrong—ringing every warning bell and staking every red flag—seemed like it was the only way to make things right. A moment that he laments and curses every day of his miserable existence. A moment that inevitably led him here—a regal investment worth an A-list actor’s net worth turned abused, chained-up slave thrown down in the dungeon of a multi-million dollar mansion owned by one of the most affluent families in Apocamerica.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
He was never intended to be a two-in-one punching bag fleshlight for a boozy, cracked-out asshole with a trust fund.
But as the saying goes—the road to hell is paved with only the best intentions.
***
A big thank you to 32 for beta-reading draft 1 of this months ago and giving me feedback! You the real MVP!
(Previous) Taglist (if you would like to be added or removed, please let me know!): @sacredwrath @pirefyrelight @little-rat-dragon @potterhead5ever @whumpyourdamnpears
CW/TW: minor whumpee, implied noncon of minor whumpee, Facility whump, pet whump, BBU/WRU. Also cursing/bad language.
The nameless boy shivers in the cold white room. When the door opens, he tries not to flinch.
“Good morning, Handler.” He doesn’t know if it’s morning or night. The bright white light never goes off. But he knows, now, what he’s supposed to say.
“Look at me, trainee.”
He lifts up his head, a dark curl falling over one eye. The man moves it aside. The nameless boy can’t stop his flinch at the touch, or his whimper, anticipating the punishing shock. Lean in, trainee, not away.
“Is this some kind of fucking joke?” The man grabs his arm, hard, and turns over his left wrist to see the barcode. “Fuck. How old are you, trainee?”
The nameless boy can’t always remember his number, but he knows the answer to this question. “I am of legal and consenting age.”
“Yeah, that’s the company line, but how old are you?”
“I-I-“ His mind is as blank as the white walls. “I don’t know.”
All Pets are of legal and consenting age, and you’re a Pet now, 115.
You signed up for this.
You want this.
You want this.
“Please,” the nameless boy whispers. He tries to blink away the the tears threatening to spill, and they catch on his lashes.
“Christ, you’re pretty. But you’re just a child.” The big handler moves away from him, his hands balling into angry fists. “Go lie down. Take a nap or something.”
Under the cold unrelenting light, a nameless boy drifts in and out of consciousness.
