Prospective
Jumping back to the beginnings of Ira’s story - why Ira became a Romantic instead of a Guard Dog, and how Doctor Madeline Chase decided to get a pet in the first place.
Content - lady whump, pet whump (BBU), referenced beating, referenced surgery, dehumanization, and a hint of discussion of noncon/dubcon. Whumper POV.
Referenced Karen Renford and Scarlett Dredd belong to @ashintheairlikesnow and are used with permission.
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Madeline Chase carefully dropped her used scrubs into the laundry bag by the door of the - ridiculously small - dressing room WRU offered for the doctors in their medical wing. She was used to much more comfort in her own clinic, but she had to be honest, her patients didn't pay half as well as WRU did. No, Karen Renford and her clients' special requests made for a steady stream of money directly into Madeline's pockets, and she could trade some minutes in the stuffy little staff room every second Friday for that. Especially when it was a routine job. This must've been the third or fourth romantic she's given a face 'a little bit more Scarlett Dredd'. Usually that request included a slightly more upturned nose, some cheek augmentation, and in less than perfect cases like the pet she'd had on the table today, also some more complicated augmentation of the chin. Madeline had done a good job, though. Two or three weeks, with the pet being on the drip, and she'd start into her new life looking with an uncanny resemblance to her prospective's favorite porn star.
She clicked her tongue. Men. Ridiculous. Their pet could've been something unique, exclusive, something molded into a perfect shape for them, but they just wanted a cheap copy of whoever was en vogue these days. If Madeline had a pet, she'd never let a scalpel touch their face. Wasn't that the thrilling part of it, seeing this hull of who they once were, mind shattered into pieces, rebuilt for an owner?
With a sigh, she cast a glance at her reflection in the mirror. Deep circles had formed under her eyes. Yeah. Time to get home, have a glass of wine and call it a day. She quickly applied a layer of lipstick, before she slid the golden Rolex back over her wrist, grabbed her large handbag and left the room.
"Hey, Doc! Doc Chase!", someone called past her, just as she was about to open the swing doors towards the lobby.
With a well measured frown, she spun around to face him. "Yes, handler? My time here's up. It's almost midnight."
At least the man had the decency to pull an apologetic grimace. "I know, Doc, but-"
"Doctor Chase," she cut him off. "I'm not some sitcom character. Or Ms Chase, given I'm off duty."
He cleared his throat. "Doctor Chase, we might have an emergency and I could really need a medical opinion."
"Don't you have a resident surgeon in?"
"In the daytime. She's had the last shift."
Madeline sighed. "Fine. I'll add that to the invoice I'll send to your boss. Better be worth it."
He directs her into one of the larger rooms. There's some handlers gathered there, and a stretcher by the wall with a barely conscious trainee strapped to it. A girl with short brown hair, average size, all lean muscle, and, wow, she's been through the wringer. She's still dressed in the classic trainee clothes, oversized shirt and short sweatpants, but from the way her arms and legs are covered in bruises, from the soft noises she's making, Madeline can only imagine what her torso looks like. The girl is whimpering quietly, wide hazel eyes trying to take in the room, but shifting in and out of focus. There's a wheeze to her breathing, that lets Madeline guess she has at least one broken rib, maybe even more.
"You have an X-ray?," Madeline asks, stepping in closer to the girl.
The handler who has called her in scoffs, and Madeline turns around with a raised eyebrow.
He's still grinning, shaking his head dismissively. "You're not here for the bitch, Doctor. Trust me, she'll be good. We know exactly how to land a strike." The man nods at his colleague, a man in a guard's uniform, sitting hunched over on one of the beds. "Little girl punched his face. Cracked his nose, I think, but maybe something else, too."
Madeline glances back at the girl, at her bruised knuckles, her muscular arms, but also her glazed over eyes, the salty traces of dried tears on her face.
"What happened?" She steps toward the handlers to take a closer look at the injured man's face. A dark bruise is forming on his cheekbone, his eye partly swollen already. Carefully, she runs her fingers over his hot skin.
"Miller got himself beaten up by some cute little trainee, that's what happened", the first one says smugly.
"I don't even know, man", the guard says, flinching under Madeline's touch. His voice is trembling. "I was walking her to the cafeteria to get her lunch. Kind of full on the corridor, then some door slammed shut, and bam, she slammed her fist in my face and ran for it."
"I mean, she's meant to be a guard dog at some point," the other guy says. "Bitch is meant to fight. Can be expected she turns against you."
"She's been a good girl," the female handler cuts in. "Perfect demeanor until today. 609 is my trainee, stop talking about shit you don't understand. It's been a fucking panic attack. You've seen the state we've found her in. Complete mess. She didn't try and run, for fuck's sake, I could've worked with that, but no, she went to fucking hide and cry."
She steps over to the bound girl and grabs her shirt with both hands, ripping it open with a quick jerk. The trainee flinches, but doesn't even make any more noise, just stares up at her handler, as if waiting for an order. That's obedience. The handler's right. Perfect demeanor.
"Look," the handler says, pointing at a burn scar running from the girl's neck down her side. Then at the remains of a tattoo, obviously in the process of being removed. "3rd Infantry Division. Our girl's a veteran. Caught a grenade, or an IED, for all this looks like. The trauma to go with it." She lets go of the shirt, and steps back, leaving the girl's chest exposed. Her purple bruises are shining under the cold hospital lights. Beautiful.
Her handler sighs dismissively. "She's… well. She's fucking useless to our clients like that."
Madeline can hardly take her eyes off the girl. The fear in her eyes, mixed with determination to not let it show, is captivating.
"I can be a good pet," 609 whispers. Even raspy like this, her voice has a soft, velvety quality to it. A stark counterpoint to her muscles, and yet a perfect complement. "Please… Handler Amiri, Ma'am. I'm sorry, I've been… bad, I… didn't mean to, I won't be, I promise." The little breaks between her words are intriguing. She must be in horrible pain from the beating. She holds it all in though, all in the effort to be good.
She is good, Madeline thinks. She's fucking perfect.
It costs all of her effort to turn her focus back at the injured guard. "Could be a cheek bone fracture," Madeline says and points her thumb at the door. "Nurse Kim can do an X-ray. Let them also check your eye. If the fracture is bad, I can operate tonight. I've got the materials I need."
The guard nods with a short wince and steps out, leaving Madeline with the handlers and the trainee.
Handler Amiri has sunk back in a visitor's chair, talking to the other handler as if Madeline wasn't there. "Gotta talk to the boss. We have cut her from the Guard Dog program. If she pulls that shit when she's with a client? They'll give us hell." She sighs. "Wish there was an alternative, though. Intake papers said she doesn't seem fit for Domestic or Platonic. Also, these pay a lot worse than Guard Dogs."
"Obvious then," the other handler says with a shrug. "I mean, I'd fuck her. She's cute."
She chuckles. "Yeah well, Steve, we know you'd fuck every pet that goes through this facility, though."
"Not all. 57, as of today," he says with a smug grin. "She sure can be 58."
Madeline looks over at the girl. She's staring at the ceiling, breath flat, doing her best to become invisible. Her throat bobs, as if she's swallowing a sob.
Casually, Madeline steps over to her stretcher. 609's eyes flick to her. Begging. That girl can beg with her eyes only, as beautifully as she did with her voice before. Madeline smiles at her.
It's not meant to be reassuring.
She rests a finger on 609's exposed collarbone, right on top of a particularly nasty bruise. The girl inhales sharply, almost inaudibly, not even noticed by the handlers who are still discussing her fate.
"Girl has to be written off. Romantic division are fucking peculiar about scars," Handler Amiri is saying. "Won't invest in damaged goods, when there isn't already a prospective."
Madeline digs her thumb into the girls bruise. She whimpers softly in response, trembles the slightest bit. Madeline feels a chill run down her spine.
"There is," she mumbles and steps back, turning around to look at the handlers.
She needs this. These quiet noises, these pleading eyes, this body so used to taking pain.
"There's what?" Amiri asks, dumbfounded.
She hears the girl gasp behind her. More clever than her handler, it seems. Good. Madeline wants her to understand what she's in for.
And to understand there's no way out of it.
"A prospective."
