Captive whumpees who need to be in control and who default to their training and being meticulous to cope with the utter loss of control while captive:
- obsessively making their bed over and over
- getting up at the same time of day even though they don't know what time it is, because their body does somehow
- similarly, obsessing over the time and date
- attempting to keep with the same routine they had when free, even if doing most of it is impossible (they might just pretend to in order to make themselves feel better)
- memorizing guard/captor routines, faces, names, schedules, building layouts in order to have a chance of getting revenge once out
- eating the food they’re given in a specific order, in a specific way
- collecting and hiding random objects (nails, paperclips, pebbles, sticks, etc) “just in case”
- if they’re let outside, doing the same “circuit” around the area every time, like they’re doing a patrol
- getting distressed when things were promised but don’t happen when/how they were supposed to (meals, lights turning off/on, scheduled interviews interrogations, shower, etc)
- going over training exercises and routines to keep themselves occupied, even if only in their head so as not to waste strength
- obsessing over everything that led up to their capture, imagining all the ways they could (or couldn’t) have prevented it
- counting. Seconds passed, tiles, cracks in the walls, corners, windows, people, days spent inside, meals, breaths
There’s nothing quite like the terror of waking up and being unable to remember a single thing about yourself, every strained attempt to remember only resulting in you smacking into the steel vault door that’s suddenly right where your cherished childhood memories used to be. Or, where they probably were, anyway. I wouldn’t have known, because I couldn’t fucking remember. All I could feel was this cold pit in my stomach, the sensation that I’d collapsed in on myself like a black hole, that I wasn’t anyone anymore.
Yep, there’s really nothing quite like it. Which is why there’s also the godforsaken sequel: being molded into someone—something—you’re absolutely certain you don’t want to be.
“Your pain is what makes you useful,” the trainer intoned. “Say it.”
“Fuck you—” The cattle prod jabbed into my stomach. My arms yanked at the manacles suspending me, instinct driving me to protect my torso. That was the only thing driving me, I thought numbly, my jaw clenched against the pain. Instinct. I didn’t have much else.
When it stopped, I sagged in my chains with my arms pulling at their sockets, and a bead of sweat ran down my nose and plopped to the tile floor, right in front of the trainer’s boots. The tip of her cattle prod, still warm, pushed up under my chin. I flinched upright. She let out a dry chuckle. “I could do this all day, pet. But I doubt you can.”
“Underestimate me again,” I muttered, “I dare y—”
A short, sharp zap to the sternum shut me up, at least for a second. “Your pain,” she repeated, seizing my chin in her hand, “is what makes you useful. Say it three times, and this session ends, alright? That’s a pretty clear win condition. You’d have to be stupid not to accept it.”
I loosened my jaw, made like I was going slack with defeat. “M … my …”
Her fingers slipped on my sweaty skin as her grip tightened. “Yeah?” she prompted.
I jerked my head to the side, and my teeth closed around flesh and bone. I tasted blood before she screeched, and before she had the presence of mind to electrocute me again. The prod drove deep into my stomach, but I clenched my jaw down harder against the pain, against the screaming in my ear. You’re gonna hurt with me, motherfucker.
Finally I couldn’t stand the electricity anymore. I released her mangled fingers, and her blood dripped down my chin. She reared back and didn’t waste a second in driving the cattle prod into my stomach, zapping me so long it began to burn. “You son of a bitch!” Her boot drove into my leg, and as it buckled, the prod dragged up my chest.
I was seeing stars by the time it ended, colors swirling in my vision like they were trying to brighten up the plain tile of my cell. The trainer hissed in pain, flexing her injured hand. I couldn’t see how good I’d gotten her, but I could still taste her blood, so I had to assume it was pretty goddamn good. I spit some of it out by her boots.
She just glared at me. “You don’t eat until you say your affirmations, you goddamn brat. Enjoy starving.” She hooked her cattle prod into her belt and left, slamming the door behind her.
I wiped my face on my shoulder and grinned after her. Facility: zero. Me: one.
taglist: @cryptozoolliegy @chiswhumpcorner (thanks for beta reading!) @paingoes @loonybun @half-duck @inhurtandincomfort (thanks for beta reading!) @toyybox @catnykit
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
It goes on and on and on, until they can hardly even scream anymore, just pathetically beg for forgiveness. By that time, it must be getting late, because Cecilia leaves them. She said something, but they can’t hear it with the ringing in their ears, and they don’t manage to ask in time.
The door shuts. Walenty doesn’t know how long it takes them to breathe soundly or regain rational thought.
Magic-fueled pain administration, then a stress position for however-long. That’s their punishment. They sigh into the darkness, aching from both physical effort and the residue of the spell. It’s going to get worse as more time passes.
They’re so tired. In their desperate attempts to avoid this exact outcome, they haven’t gotten even a blink of sleep last night. Walenty ponders trying to nap. It’s extremely unsightly, of course, but this is clearly sensory deprivation, meaning they’re alone. Still, they don’t know how long they’ll be left here. If someone walks in and sees them slacking, that’s a guaranteed extension, and they definitely won’t wake themselves up before that with the zero rest they’ve gotten lately.
Walenty sighs again. Now, what to think about to accompany mind-numbing torture...
What’s next, perhaps? They can definitely rule out this being an execution, since it’s extremely inefficient. The method has been extensively researched, and if they really have run out of use, a living body is far better for experimentation than a dead one. So they’re pretty sure they’re not being sent to be killed.
Except... maybe they are being prepared for experiment? New discoveries about healers are always being made, and a weak subject is far easier to handle... No, no, there’s no way. It was only one mistake.
…But, what if it’s one mistake out of a mountain of many, and Walenty finally ruined their last chance? It wasn’t actually a small mistake either, that report was important. It was important, and they botched it, and they’re going to dangle here until they’re too weak to move or fight back, and they’ll be taken to be strapped to an operating table for the rest of their li—
An ugly, too loud snap, and just for a second, pain shoots through them. The teen squeaks in surprise, because Holy shit that hurt, and then Oh Stars why did they shock me what’s the purpose of this? Is it sleep deprivation to speed up the process? It has to be it has to be it has to be—
Their chest hurts from not breathing, so they go ahead and do that. The literal trained torturer that should know how sensory deprivation works touches the floor with the end of their shoe, seeking stimulation beyond ache.
This is fine. There’s no way this is how it ends, right? There’s no way. Otherwise they’d have just been knocked out with the taser in their ear, maybe drugged for good measure. Yes, there’s no way. This is just a regular punishment.
They messed up, so they’re being punished. Instead of just throwing them into isolation after getting the life shocked out of them, they got shocked again some time after too. It’s far more likely to be intentional than an error. Did Cecilia — and anyone else has access to the damn thing — just feel like it, or will this accompany them?
...Walenty supposes they’ll find out in due time.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
As usual, they have practically no walking range. Being just barely able to stand is done for the sake of causing them more pain. The interrogator wonders if they should do this for their own prisoners. Hm. No, jostling grown adults into stress positions is both too risky and something Walenty just doesn’t have the physical strength for.
Yeah, they could drug them and ask a security guard to move them, but it seems like such a waste when tying someone to a chair works perfectly fine too. Not to mention they’d have to add that to reports.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
It’s boring. Right, of course it is. It hurts. Of course it does.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
Just when Walenty is settling into resting their eyes, they’re firmly brought back to reality. A sharp pain runs up their toes to their head, and if they weren’t already suspended midair, it would surely bring them to their knees from surprise alone.
They breathe in shakily. Breathe out. It’s alright, it was only one. It was only one. Their arms hurt. Is it periodic? Should they count to see if there will be a next one? Ah, they hate counting like this. It always makes everything even more boring.
Walenty sighs. They have nothing better to do anyway.
Assuming they had taken a minute to calm down earlier, This “shock” is seperated by thirty minutes. If this is the case for every instance of it, they’ve already spent an hour and a half here, and are deliberately being kept awake.
Walenty hates this kind of punishment. It’s such a waste of time. They’ve been awake for... 20 hours now, given the all-nigher they’d pulled trying to avoid punishment.
They feel tired.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
Hm. How come they’re not hallucinating? No way just aching and their thoughts are keeping them coherent.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
They wince at the simulation of agony right at their nerves. Yes, thirty minute intervals.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
They hear the door being unlocked, opened. Cecilia. She walks forwards with purpose, heels clicking with every step. The bound one can’t tell if she’s real. They beg in case she is.
“I’m sorry, please-” it’s strangely easy to make their voice crack. Maybe because they haven’t spoken? No, probably the screaming earlier. “I’ll fix it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again. I’m sorry.”
She stares back.
“...are you real?” They dare to ask. They have to know. “Please tell me.”
She turns around and walks away without giving them an answer. Walenty sobs.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
They hear bugs crawling. This time, they’re certain it’s an illusion. There’s no way bugs would find their way here, after all.
There’s no way they’re rotting. Walenty’s hallucinating, that’s all. Someone will take them out soon.
Surely, someone will take them out soon.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
It hits on 31 minutes and seven seconds. Seems it’s either manual or they internally counted too fast. They hope for the latter. They hope it’ll be over soon.
Walenty closes their eyes and hangs their head. They’re so tired. They somehow haven’t lost feeling in their arms, so those still ache horribly. They just want to sleep. They just want to never make mistakes again.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · · ၴႅၴ
A handy little “alarm” wakes them from the nap they hadn’t realized they’d taken. 2 hours and 30 minutes so far, if it’s real.
They fall back asleep almost immediately. They’ll need it.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
Walenty sputters back to awareness, heartbeat going far too fast. Horribly loud chains clink against each other, making them flinch.
They breathe slowly. It stings. Are they crying? They can’t tell, it’s too dark.
It’s too dark. Everything is pitch black. Meaning earlier Cecilia must have been a hallucination. The lighting was off.
Three hours in. If this is a mid-length punishment, they should be fetched soon.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
“I’m sorry,” they practice. “I’ll fix it, I swear. Please. Please...”
They tut. It’s just for the sake of having noise. “..no, not..convincing. Too dry. I should sound frantic.. Should I ask whoever comes if they’re real?” They look out into the darkness. “...That’s pathetic enough, is it not..? Would it show that I really did learn..? or would it just give the impression of being... incapable of taking it?”
Nothing responds back. They don't want to be called out on their lie, but they don't want to appear incompetent either.
They hate this.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
What time is it? They went in three hours—
Ow.
They went in three and a half hours ago, at 18:16. Six in the evening. Now it’s been 3 and a half hours. It’s 21:46. Nine in the evening. Nearly ten. Curfew’s already hit.
They won’t be fetched until tommorow morning, then. They sigh, resigning themselves to their punishment.
They’ve gotten less than two hours of sleep in the last 38.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
They should’ve watched their grip. They should’ve checked the pen. They should’ve recalled how they tortured someone. They still can’t remember just what harm they inflicted, nor the information gained alongside it. If they really do have to fix their mistake, they’ll need to redo the interrogation.
This is so counterproductive.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
They’re terribly bored, so they count seconds in their head again. A zap marks four hours.
How much longer?
Until the morning, probably.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
Walenty spends the next eight hours sluggishly going from perfecting their plea for mercy, studying as many subjects as can be done from memory, and spacing out. The only vivid hallucinations they get are unrealistic. It’s a relief.
They’re shocked awake every half hour. They’re sure it goes off automatically now, because they’ve spent an entire hour counting the seconds exactly and it lines up perfectly.
It's 06:28 now. Their ears are ringing. They can’t tell if they’re numb to this torture or oversensitive to it.
They sigh. They’re so bored. They just want to beg already. They want to fall asleep. They’ll have to do the whole school day as usual, homework included. It’ll be shoddy.
They hunch their shoulders at the system put in place so that they can’t rest. Hurts.
The door unlocks, creaking open. Light floods in. They squint, gasping. Yes, finally. This better not be a hallucination. No, no way, none of their other ones have been so life-like. It’s much too bright, so they tear up a little as they force their eyes to flutter open, but they wouldn’t dare not be alert.
Assorted roses in red and black. Lady Cecilia. She’s standing there. They must collect themselves.
“..permission to speak?” Walenty rasps. Their voice is rough, unprofessional, far too desperate. Chains clink from the simple act of them trying to face her better. They didn’t even try to seem panicked, but that’s what they displayed. That’s bad, they had asked to talk, so following protocol, but then displayed desperation. Two separate approaches are mixing and now they have to stick with it despite having not even gauged her mood yet.
Walenty mouths a “please.” Cecilia steps forward, looks at them. They look back, making eye contact. Glistening red with yellow and pink, like a ruby. Nothing new. If this is a hallucination, they can’t tell.
The teen can’t help but flinch when she grabs their face, obviously just for an inspection. Even though it’s normal, they instinctively look away, breath hitching before they hurry to fix it. The sound of overhead chains knocking against each other is so loud. Walenty must be shaking, then.
“Granted,” she gives her blessing, letting go of their chin — Thank the Stars — and steps back, her own hands interlocking.
“I’m deeply sorry,” they lower their head as if they’re bowing. This is the closest they can physically get to it when their limbs are locked in place. “Yesterday, I was meant to complete important work, and I ruined it, I’m sorry—” they make their voice higher for that one word, “—I didn’t intend to, I would never, I tried and tried and tried to rewrite the report, I couldn’t recall enough, I’m so sorry.” They suck in a breath, frantic. “I’ll fix it, I swear I will, please let me fix it, please,” Is this not enough begging for her? “I can do better, I swear I can, please please I won’t fail again ple—”
“Enough.”
They stop.
Walenty breathes in. Holds. They barely had time to do something as simple as breathing during the whole performance. It added to the desperation of it all, but now they’re fighting not to pant in an undignified, disgusting way that would assure Cecilia they can’t conduct themselves and need more time in here, but then their brain really would turn to mush.
“I can see that you regret your mistake.” Of course they do. “However, regret does not reverse damage.”
She steps towards the wall, easily holding down the laver to extend the chain. Walenty tries to find their footing so that they can turn around to be uncuffed properly, but they’re utterly exhausted, so of course their balance is terrible. They stand on shaky legs, trying not to step this and that way.
The sensation of being on a flat surface is wonderful. So wonderful they only snap back to reality when the cuffs are released. It wasn't particularly tight and gloves served as padding, so Walenty doesn't need to heal themselves. That’s one good thing, at least— they’re certain they wouldn't be allowed to if they had needed it.
She walks back to her previous place, staring them down. Walenty falters, unsure if they’re supposed to return her gaze, or bow, or kneel and grovel. Which is most respectful? Which one is appropriate to the situation? Usually, they’d be able to figure it out so much faster, but they just can't think.
There’s no time. Walenty settles on kneeling. Their shaking is visible and they’re having trouble holding the pose, but that doesn't matter.
“I intended on having you clean up after yourself,” Cecilia speaks, sharp as always. She’s dissapointed. She’s always dissapointed. “Nonetheless, it's clear you’re incapable of even that little.”
Ah.
She genuinely planned for Walenty to rewrite the report.
They were supposed to be able to do that.
“…I apologize,” the teen —she expects them to be able to do the work of a professional while sleep deprived, that’s insane, it doesn’t work like that— finds their voice.
She doesn’t respond. Their torturer merely approaches them and lifts their chin. They look her in the eyes.
Whumpee cant fathom that their "Caretaker" is anything but, despite the horror everyone seems to react with when they talk about their time with them.
"Caretaker" is so much nicer than Old Whumper, of course they arent really a whumper! They never beat whumpee or starve them, or [insert violence here], thats what a /real/ whumper would do. What? Sure, theyre still a pet/slave/weapon/what have you, but thats just the way things are. "Caretaker" loves whumpee, others just dont understand.
cw: institutionalized violence, abuse of authority, torture, interrogation, vague threats of noncon, forced to strip (referenced)
an Asbury POV drabble for @paperprinxe
÷÷÷
He almost feels sorry for number 3844.
No family, no friends. From a planet so backwater he doesn't even have a birth certificate on record. Scars and tattoos put on display by the strip search, marks of a lifetime of gang violence.
Part of Asbury knows it's no small wonder the boy joined the Riot Kings. What else could he do with the hand life had dealt him? But he still joined the Riot Kings, and that does tend to put one at odds with the Fleet.
Asbury watches ‘44 squirm in his chair through one-way glass. Name, age, and hometown are all in bold at the top of the file he was handed when he stepped through the door, but he let them slip through his mind at the earliest convenience. Right now, the prisoner doesn't need a name. He's just a number, just a suspect. Two simultaneous detonations at the Imhotep Healthcare Directory yesterday, and Mainfleet wants someone booked for it. Maybe ‘44 did it. Maybe he didn't. Either way, Asbury will get his confession.
The interrogation room is kept at a cool fifty-three degrees. 3844 is stripped to his boxers, ankles chained to the ground to keep him from curling his legs to his chest. All by design, of course. It's only when the suspect is openly shivering that Asbury opens the door and takes a seat across from him, a thick jacket zipped up to his throat and a smile on his face.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
‘44 doesn't reply. Typical song and dance. All the Riot Kings think they're tough shit, but he's had the majority of his intakes in tears by five o’clock. ‘44 won't be any different.
“I'm sure you know why you're here. Big explosion. Property damage, civilian casualties, all sorts of bad things, and you're our number one suspect.” He taps a few buttons on the side of the table, and a digital form appears in front of ‘44. “Mainfleet thinks you did it. I can't say I disagree. So I'll give you a chance to take the easy way out. Sign a confession, accept your sentence, done.” Asbury slips a stylo from his sleeve, rolling it across the table to where ‘44 is hunched, eyes locked on the confession form. The line for his name, the box for his thumbprint.
“Come on, it isn't difficult.” He folds his arms, leaning back to watch him. “One quick signature and this will all be over.”
‘44 doesn't seem to want it to be over. They never do. They never know what's coming. Asbury doesn't miss the way his eyes trail from the stylo to the document, perhaps considering. But then his stare locks onto a spot directly in front of him, and Asbury knows a choice has been made.
Maybe he thinks there's not enough evidence. Maybe it's just pride, rearing its head for one last hurrah. But there's a reason there's no cameras in the interrogation room. There's a reason they don't snap an intake photo until after initial questioning's complete.
‘44 tenses as Asbury comes up behind him, chains rattling as his hands try to raise and shield his head. Unfortunately for him, there isn't nearly enough length for that. The suspect's head bounces off the table as Asbury slams it forward, nose cracking on impact. He lets out a startled gasp of pain, the loudest sound he's heard '44 make so far.
He always gives them a chance to do this the easy way.
Asbury palms the back of the suspect's head, slowly forcing it onto the table, shoulder over wrist until the full weight of his torso is keeping him down. He gently rocks his skull back and forth, all pressure on that broken nose as ‘44 shrieks.
It's rare a suspect takes his offer. A Riot King certainly never has, so he isn't surprised. Just a little disappointed at the repeat mistake.
‘44 lets out a whine as he pinches a piercing between his thumb and forefinger, stud pulling at the cartilage of his ear. Asbury uses the leverage to steer him, repositioning his head so his cheek is pressing into the table, face smeared red.
It doesn't take a confession to book a Riot King, but it's the most surefire way to keep them locked up. One more criminal off the streets, one less danger to the public. Even if it's likely ‘44 is the perpetrator, it doesn't matter if he is or not. He would've done something similar eventually. They all do.
“I told you to take the easy way out,” he says, still pinching ‘44’s ear to keep him still. “Of course, it isn't too late.” He releases the suspect, taking a step back. “I'm just as willing to keep this going as I am to take an early lunch. Really, that's all up to you.”
“Fuck you,” ‘44 mumbles. Ah, look at that. Finally talking. Asbury shrugs off the expletive, once again more disappointed than surprised. Time and time again, the Riot Kings have proven they'd rather suffer needlessly than cooperate. But what else should he expect from a group of misguided punks?
“Alright, I see you want to keep going.” He kneels beside him. “Are you right or left handed?”
No response. He sighs exaggeratedly.
“I'll take a guess then.”
There's about an inch of slack between the metal leg of the chair and the wristcuff; nowhere near enough to enable ‘44’s struggles, but he still does his damnedest as Asbury catches a bony finger and snaps it, wincing as ‘44 lets out a deafening scream right next to his head.
He really needs to start wearing earplugs, or his tinnitus is going to keep getting worse.
Breaking every finger would be overkill, so Asbury stops after the index and the pointer. If ‘44 remains stubborn, he'll dislocate the left thumb next, but he'd prefer not to stack on any more injuries than necessary for something as simple as a confession.
When he stands, ‘44 is slumped against the table, taking heaving, pain-pitched breaths through his mouth.
“I hope you weren't left-handed,” Asbury says, eyeing the stylo. “But even if you are, as of right now, you have a set of fingers that are still good to go. As of right now.” He leans on the table, eyes fixated on ‘44’s blood-smeared face.
“Unfortunately, you may not have the privilege of using your remaining set for very much longer. See, I'm here to entice you to sign a paper, and if you have two broken hands, you can't do that. And if you can't sign a paper…” He shrugs. “Well, there's no point in me being here, is there?”
‘44’s eyes are wide as he stares up at Asbury. There's fear there now, he notes with satisfaction. Exactly what he needs to get this ball rolling.
“Without a signed confession, we'll have to proceed the old-fashioned way,” he continues. “Gathering evidence, building a case, prosecuting. Consumes time and resources. And that whole time, you'll be in a holding cell. Not the end of the world, the guards will make sure you're fed, but some of them will also be looking for… company.” He shrugs. “And you'll have two broken hands.”
The suspect's eyes widen a fraction, breaths hissing through clenched teeth as Asbury leans on the table beside him, hips just about level with ‘44’s face.
“And sure, eventually the investigation team will find what they're after. One way or another, you'll be going to Phaestus.” He feels the suspect flinch as he reaches down to brush his thumb across his cheekbone.
“All it really boils down to is how long you'd like to spend in that holding cell.”
÷÷÷
Maybe ‘44 was left-handed after all.
The name that winds up scrawled at the bottom of the page is a scribbling mess. Then again, that could just be his handwriting. The Riot Kings aren't exactly known for being educated.
‘44 looks defeated when the guards come in to drag him away, and Asbury swears he can see tears shining at the corners of his eyes. A part of him wishes he could snap a picture of this moment, show today's rebel youth what happens when you join up with terrorists, but that isn't his job, is it?
He leaves the puddle of blood and spit on the table for the cleaners.
Beside it, right where the digital form had glowed, sits a bloodied stylo and a thumbprint in perfect scarlet.
“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.
Ambushing them just at the beginning of their lunchbreak and requiring them to urgently deliver those documents to the department in the building the furthest away.
The boss turning down air conditioning on a hot day to save money.
Manager whumpee who is tasked to take the blame/blow for something negative that happened in the company.
Whumpee caught in a power war of two superiors, being used as a weapon in a corporate sense.
Boss whumper who loves torturing his employees with dozens of unnecessary meetings/video calls.
Employee whumper who knows boss is hopelessly dependent on them and plans to exploit that.
Boss whumpee crying because he just lost his chance on that christmas bonus because of his stupid employees.
Whumpee doing so much overtime their personal life is neglected and starts to fade and loses relevance.
The whole business is moving to a slightly cheaper country. Lose your job or move along to a country where the only familiar thing is our company and its people.
"Here, we are like family" but a very dysfunctional/abusive family.
Tismoria and Echo's OCs belong to @echo-goes-mmm / @echo-goes-aaa
Warnings: slavery, implied human trafficking, implied past dubcon and noncon
Terrance was…fairly certain that being invited, and allowed, to sit at the small dining table alongside Master and the king was a good sign. Hopeful, at least. It spoke well to the king’s character.
He…hoped so, anyway. Hoped that the invitation had no malicious ulterior motives. There had to be some outside motive, of course. Why else would a king let his gift eat alongside his old and future masters? But all he could hope was that this wasn’t a trap. That he could get out of this unharmed.
Hope was all Terrance got to keep anymore. And even that had dimmed to something more…suitable, to one of his new station.
The room they they dined in must have been constructed for privacy, for all the thin windows running from ceiling to floor to let light stream in past the parted curtains. A warm beam burned into his back with the same heat of the brazier used to heat the brand his trainers had burned into the base of his spine.
Its absence, highlighted in the clarity of sensation in once-dead nerves, left Terrance unmoored in odd moments like these.
Not all of Terrance’s princely bearing had been beaten out of him over the years; instead, it had simply been tempered, melted down then reforged to better suit the slave they made of him. He clung to what he could get away with right now to carry him through this to whatever standards the king might have of him.
While he had been prepared on what to expect in the unlikely case that he was invited to dine alongside his master, he very much doubted any of his trainers could have predicted that he’d wind up at the scrutiny of literal royalty.
He had never felt so grateful for the Timorsian dining etiquette he’d been taught by his mother.
Terrance quietly picked his way through the pull-apart bread, spiced vegetables and sea bass offered his way, a modest meal that he could comfortably eat without drawing attention from anything like lacking size despite his lacking appetite, something he’d long since learned to ignore.
Across from him, Master and the king spoke as old friends. While Terrance watched and listened, careful to keep his attentiveness light and mostly focus on his food to give them some amount of privacy, he didn’t say a single word.
The only times he spoke was when he thanked the staff, even as he took care to be grateful for the meal. Neither the king nor his master had called on him to speak, so he stayed silent. The way a proper slave should.
His gratitude was sincere. He hadn’t been able to stomach much today, and his body no longer satiated itself off of the slim pickings of his appetite.
He was grateful. He was.
Good slaves were grateful. Silent. Obedient.
Thallos took care to be all of those things, exactly the way he was meant to be. Exactly how he had been bent and broken and bidden leave to do. Exactly as his trainers had taught him to do. To be. For his sake.
Timorsia did not tolerate ungrateful slaves.
“Thallos.”
Terrance’s fingers froze at the sound of the king’s voice. Carefully, he set down down the pull-apart bread to give the king his full attention.
His voice came out as soft as ever, as lacking in any bite, its icy fangs long since yanked out by the root. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
King Jason V’s green eyes flicked over his body, and Terrance’s mind spiralled, heart stilling in his chest. Only the placid attentiveness carefully trained to replace his old princely masks kept anxiety from pulling at the skin of his face. His posture was as perfect as he could get it, he knew. Back straight, shoulders relaxed, chin tilted slightly downwards in submission, hands currently folded neatly on his lap. Was there some flaw the king could see? Could pick out from him?
Could he see the eyes of Queen Catherine on a face with the jaw of her husband?
Timorsia had never been friendly with Rhodantheia. Terrance’s trainers had made very sure that he knew just what would happen to him if anyone found out who he was. What he was.
And that was just under the assumption of Terrance being the simple nobleman they mistook him for.
What would Timorsia do with a foreign, practically enemy, prince?
The king’s lips quirked upwards at the corners. “Achilles tells me you have been trained as not just a caregiver, tutor and nurse, but also as a…what was it, a ‘host’? Could you tell me about what that entails?”
“The host specialty is one of the subsidiary skillsets Hesione Trading House educates its elect-class slaves in, depending on the pre-existing natural talents and inclinations of trainees like myself,” he answered promptly. “Hosts like myself are trained to offer company and entertainment to our masters with a strong focus on the fine arts.” He dipped his head slightly, every motion now instinctively loaded in submissive elegance and maximum aesthetic appeal, just as it had been for the past year.
Hosts were trained in the deliverance of both sexual and chaste pleasure, although Terrance knew better than to be so crass as to speak of his sexual training.
“My main specialties in the host skillset lie in playing stringed instruments with a particular focus on the violin, the lyre, the zither and the piano, dance, tea preparation, poetry, oral storytelling and etiquette, Your Majesty.” His strongest skills- the ones he had taken best to. Many he already had before that fateful night, although not all.
His gaze flicked up tentatively to meet the king’s own. “Does such an answer satisfy what you wish to know?”
The king’s head tilted to the side with a small hint of a smile. Unreadable.
Had he misspoke?
“I see.” The king leaned back in his chair. “And your…primary skillset, I assume? Tell me about it.”
“My primary specialty lies in the safe, healthy rearing of children from pregnancy to adulthood,” Terrance answered halfway on reflex. “I have been trained to help accommodate as wide a variety of needs and possibilities as Hesione Trading House could manage, as well as to act as an aide in medical care, general caregiving and proper physical, mental and emotional maturation and recovery concerning my charges. It is strongly advised that I act in a supplementary nature in my role, however I can act as primary caregiver in general childcare and medical care on a long-term basis if necessary.”
His throat hurt, but he took care not to let it show.
“And how long have you been trained in by Hesione Trading House?”
Four years, one month, seventeen days. “Six years, Your Majesty.” The lie slipped out as easily as if it were truth. It might as well be. Sometimes, it was difficult to remember it was not.
His tongue felt parched, dimly remembering the many days and night spent without sleep, water or food as the collar sent lightning through him over and over and over and would only stop so long as he repeated his truths, he was a slave of Timorsia and had been since birth, his Master always knew best, he was made to be owned, good slaves are obedient, good slaves are quiet, good slaves are grateful, good slaves, Hesione Trading House saved him, he owed Hesione Trading House his life, he was a slave, he was a good slave, he was a good slave or he was nothing-
The king nodded, falling silent. Master’s gaze flicked his way to meet his eyes, then looked down at Terrance’s half-empty cup, then back up at Terrance meaningfully.
Terrance still belonged to Master. Good slaves obey.
He lifted his glass, fingers steady, and took a sip. Wine. A dry wine, better than any he’d had since he was free. He didn’t let it show how only ash coated his tongue.
It burned as it went down, the way it always did.
Terrance hadn’t liked wine, once.
Good slaves were grateful. Thallos was a good slave. Thallos was grateful for the wine.
Because he had to be.
“Can you read?” The king mused. “Write?”
Dangerous territory.
Terrance set down his glass without even a clink. “I have been taught to read, Your Majesty, but not to write. In case one of my charges or my master would like me to read aloud to them for whatever reason they may like.”
He barely heard the king hum past the roar of his own blood. Magic crackled in his lungs. If he needed to defend himself- no. No. He would stand down and take what he was given, and he’d be grateful for it. He was a good slave. Punishment made sure to keep him good.
He belonged to his master. His body, his life, his future- it all belonged to his master.
Slaves didn’t get to own anything at all. Terrance’s own magic, memories, thoughts and forbidden skills only remained his so long as he kept them close to his chest.
And that threatened to make him a bad slave, so he had to be grateful. Silent. Obedient.
Always.
It was all he was good for anymore.
Master asked the king a question that Terrance couldn’t quite make out past the slight buzzing in his ears, and the attention shifted off of him. When neither of them were looking his way, he forced his muscles to untense.
For a time, he was allowed to return to his meal. When he was offered another serving, he refused with a soft, ever-grateful smile.
Grateful. He was grateful. He had to be grateful.
“Thallos?” Terrance looked up to meet the king’s gaze yet again, stomach slowly sinking. “What do you like to do in your free time?”
Terrance’s mind blanked.
What did he like to do in his free time?
He liked… he liked to sleep. To take care of and be with the children. To go over everything and triple-check for new things to do. To sew. To hum. To let his magic flicker to life, when he could manage it.
To think of home.
The answer that passed his lips was the truth, the sincere, genuine truth, but an acceptable truth. A good truth for a useful slave. “I like to keep my hands and mind busy, your Majesty. In whatever way I can.”
