Mock execution that stops just a little later than you'd think it would.
Whumpee made to dig their own grave. They're driven out, they dig the whole thing, they're made to lay down in it, but Whumper doesn't get them up. Whumper starts shoveling the dirt in on top of them, to the point that their head is covered, and only uncovers them once they're sure that Whumpee has actually begun to suffocate.
Or a Whumpee who's taken out back. Made to kneel, gun to their head. They beg and plead, but the gun actually fires. Maybe it just fires into the ground beside them, or maybe it fires into Whumpee, just not in a fatal place. Still- Whumpee wasn't expecting them to actually fire it.
Maybe it's not the first time a mock execution has happened. Maybe Whumpee goes through the motions thinking it's another intimidation tactic. But then Whumper starts taking that extra step- and that's when Whumpee starts to panic and beg, but at that point it's already "too late".
This isn't real, this isn't real, they're just trying to scare you. This isn't real. The words kept repeating themselves in Whumpee's mind, sounding less and less sure each time.
Contents: Mock Execution, Death Threat, Held at Gunpoint, Begging, Pet Whump, Whumper and Whumpee POV
+++
“P-please Master please! Please no don’t I-i… I’ve been so good I promise I’ll never do it again. Spare me.”
———
Whumpee had wondered why Whumper was taking them out with them on a walk. It was a rare occasion and was usually prompted by their good behavior. If they did something without needing to be asked or was extra cuddly. They couldn’t think of anything that they’d done that deserved a walk, but they weren’t going to complain.
The trees were as grand as they remembered. The warmth of the light felt good on their skin. Nothing but forestry for miles. It was peaceful. Though, the peace was somehow tense. Whumpee knew something was off with Whumper. They always liked to yap about nature related topics, but they haven’t said a word since they stepped outside.
“Sooo um… Master. It’s p-pretty out to—“
“Why did you take the basement key?”
Whumpees heart felt like it froze as they slowed down to a stop. Feeling like the air from the lungs was being squeezed out to them. They feign innocence with a light smile that wasn’t fooling anyone. Looking at their Master who wasn’t looking at them.
“I don’t think I know what you mean, sir. I haven’t taken it. Is it… missing?”
There was a long silence. An unnerving one. Whumpee was almost tempted to take back their words just to tell the truth and pray that Whumpers wrath wouldn’t kill them. Their hands fidgeting with the ends of their sweater nervously.
“… s-sir?”
“You… disappoint me, pet.”
By the time they could even get a hold of themselves and register how quickly the situation escalated, Whumpee was already on their knees on the ground. Staring up into the barrel of a pistol in their Masters hand. Point blank. Their hands already trembling as their fingers dug into the dirt.
“I-I didn’t… I… M-Mast—“
“You’ve been so good. So good, pet. I thought I ripped the defiance out of you, but I guess I’ll never be able to. You’ve been so perfect… I don’t know what went wrong.”
The soft metallic click of the hammer being pulled back makes Whumpees heart skip. Sink even, into their stomach. Eyes wide and expressing unshed tears. This couldn’t be happening. Whenever they misbehaved it was always just punishments. Beatings, no food, isolation. Things they could come back from. This wasn’t something they could come back from.
“N-nothing… Master please I wasn’t thinking. I’m so sorry. I’ve been so good, haven’t I? I swear that won’t change. I don’t know what I was thinking, I just saw it and thought I… I don’t…”
The tip of the gun presses against their forehead, eliciting a whimper of fear as they try to lean back, but it only follows them. Looking past the gun and up at their Master. Seeing no mercy in their eyes.
“I can’t trust you anymore. I just can’t take the chance. If it means anything, you were my favorite.”
Whumper holds the trigger with their finger, and at the slightest twitch Whumpee breaks into shambles. Doubling over and pressing their forehead into the dirt as their hands come above their head, clasped into a pleading gesture. Hot tears of fear and despair coating their cheeks.
—•—
Whumper hums with intrigue. They were fully prepared to kill their beloved pet. The fact that they had been deceived so well into believing they were perfectly behaved and would never attempt such an act of defiance proves how dangerous they could be. Yet, the pitiful creature in front of them begging for forgiveness was such a sight for sore eyes.
They pulled the trigger. A bullet flying just past whumpees head and diving into the ground. The poor pet flinched violently and sobs rang out as their body trembled. It had been a long while since Whumper had seen their pet this way. It reminded them of the first day they took Whumpee. How desperate and deliciously terrified they were. The amount of pain they put them through to break them fast and hard. Whumper never even considered keeping Whumpee for very long, but something about them grew on them.
Was it the doe eyes? Their smile that revealed their dimples? Their clear, freckled skin? How bouncy and fluffy their hair naturally was? How docile and sweet they were?
Whumper had never kept anyone they caught for more than a week. They’d grow bored or kill them with the torture they put them through. It had already been a few months now though. What was their excuse? They couldn’t think of one.
And truly. They weren’t disappointed. Yes, their pet decided to be disobedient and required a proper punishment. And this would’ve been a great excuse to justify killing them. But… a confusing part of Whumper didn’t want to see Whumpee go. It might’ve irked them to admit it to themselves. But it was almost a welcoming feeling too. Had they ever wanted someone in their lives before? Company? Whumper didn’t do friends. Not that Whumpee could ever be their friend, that’s too high of a status for them. However, they were the closest thing Whumper could have to it.
Whumper crouches down to Whumpee’s level. Their free hand reaching down to cup the trembling pet’s chin to lift their head up. Seeing the hot tears stain their cheeks. Red rimming their eyes. Panic swirling in those beautiful iris’s. Whumper smiles. A small one. Their thumb rubbing over a plump lower lip that quivered.
“Open, pet.”
Their request makes the poor creature’s heart sink. Their head already shaking back and forth. Jaw clenching. Their sniveling was too cute.
“P-please Master please! Please no don’t I-i… I’ve been so good, I promise I’ll never do it again. Spare me.”
Whumper tsked. Their fingers sliding up Whumpee’s face to squeeze around their nose. Waiting patiently until their pet was forced to breathe through their mouth before shoving the barrel of the gun into their mouth. Oh, how Whumpee whimpered and cried. Their brow furrowed in a way that made their wide eyes somehow even cuter. Their nose scrunched up in a way that reminded Whumper of a bunny.
“Are you my good Whumpee?” The gun lightly flicked against Whumpee’s teeth as they carefully nodded. Trying their best to convey their sincerity. “And do good pets ever disobey their owners?” They shook their head. “Will you ever disobey me again?” A more frantic shake of their head makes Whumpee wince from the awkward placement of the gun in their mouth.
The silence is deafening when waiting for judgement. Whumper knew how close Whumpee was to pissing themselves. They’d probably pass out from how bad their panic attack was settling in. Whumper was more than pleased. How satisfying it was, to see a once whole person break under their touch. How they shook and quivered just at their mere breath. And look so beautiful at the same time.
“Mm, my perfect darling.” The gun is carefully extracted out of Whumpee’s mouth and lowered. Whumpee’s soft, breathy sobs make Whumper’s heart race in an addicting way. The pet doesn’t even have to be told to crawl to their master and seek forgiveness. They already do. Curling up on Whumpers lap as they nuzzle into their chest. Shaking hands cling to Whumper’s shirt. They softly hush their pet with a warm embrace. Pressing soft kisses to the top of their head. Smelling the scent of the shampoo they specifically chose for them. Yet another thing they couldn’t have possibly imagined doing to someone they should’ve killed so long ago.
Words he did not want to hear mere minutes away from a much needed nap. Lucas opened his eyes, stared at the ceiling for a moment and suppressed a groan into a gritty exhale as he rolled on his cot to sit up.
“A seventh day for rest. As is mandated by the warden in the rules,” he said as he pushed himself up and wearily walked towards the bars of his cell where the warden was waiting for him. Keeping a literal iron wall between him and Nero felt somewhat safe. Even though the door was open. And could be opened at all times.
“Which is superseded by new orders from said warden,” Nero grunted with an approving nod, satisfied that the rules were taking root in that stubborn mind, and actually rolling along for once in his life with Lucas’ jests. Not completely in the way that Lucas would want, but it was a start. “I have a job for you.” He pushed the cell door further open and beckoned at him. “Come with me.”
So much for his one and only free Sunday to recover…
But he’d learned quite well what happened when defying the warden’s orders; both by getting schooled on the rules and with practical experience. So he followed.
They walked past Nero’s office, mercifully. At least the job didn’t involve cleaning his office or being smashed to bits.
Nero led him outside instead. Okay? Strange. But the chances of getting a beating behind closed doors were getting smaller. Which was good? Lucas wasn’t really sure what to feel. A job? He wanted to believe that, but the heavy feeling in his stomach told him to be weary.
They crossed the courtyard and all eyes instantly were on them and people stepped aside to let Nero pass. The inmates weren’t exactly on high alert, especially considering Lucas was tagging behind in the warden’s trail, keeping up like an uncertain little duckling, meaning the target was already acquired. Unsurprising. Conversations around them continued, but Lucas noticed the covert little side-eyes.
Nero didn’t seem bothered by the attention and kept marching on. He didn’t even look behind him to see if Lucas was still following him; of course he was. Lucas would follow him to his doom.
And Lucas realised that as well when they rounded a corner of the building and found a gate. Leading outside. Beyond the grounds. To the woods.
“Wait…” he started, breathless, watching Nero open the gate. “Where are we going?”
His question was of course ignored. He stood absolutely frozen in place. The gate swung open, the gate to hell. Silence and Nero’s expectant sharp gaze prompted him to at least take a step forward. “Am I in trouble?” he tried again, a little more panicked.
Nero held the gate open for him, allowing him to pass first, and locked it again.
No answers. Not even words. With a simple wave of his hand, he signalled for Lucas to walk ahead of him.
No more trailing behind, no more ‘trust’. Outside the prison, Nero would keep his eyes on his prisoner at all times. As if Lucas would even dare to take a single step off the little trail taking them deeper into the woods, let alone try to make a run for it. His jelly legs wouldn’t let him. And the mere idea of Nero chasing him through the woods… now that was some nightmare fuel. Yeah, he’d dream about that tonight.
Lucas had imagined his first steps outside of the prison grounds a little differently. Something along the lines of feeling relieved, joyful, surrounded by people… Instead, his heart pounded against his ribs as he actually was on the run, and his stomach swirled with dread. It felt like he was walking to his death.
Was Nero finally fed up with all of this? Lucas glanced back. There was no gun on the man’s belt. Never was. Not that he needed it. He could just break his neck with his bare hands and leave him here to fertilize this forest.
Calm down, Lucas chastised himself. He said he had a job. Can’t do a job when dead, he tried to fool himself to keep the panic down.
For a few blissful minutes, the deception worked. A job. In the woods. Something only he could do. Nothing wrong with that.
Until they went over a small hill and he stopped dead in his tracks. A sharp little gasp broke free and his eyes roamed over the plot of land in front of them.
He forced his mouth back shut when Nero stepped past him.
“Keep walking.”
“What is this?” Lucas still asked, hurrying after Nero who strode forward with big steps, unbothered by the branches and unstable path.
Nero stopped at the clearing. The forest floor was uneven; patches of grass, heaps of leaves, but most of all because of the mounts of sand.
They weren’t exactly neatly placed in a row and there were no crosses or stones, but it was unmistakable.
This was a make-shift graveyard.
A trail of darker earth zigzagged between the lighter heaps of sand. Some of the graves had flattened out over time and some had a stump of wood at the head, indicating that part of the plot was already… occupied.
He took a light step aside, more raising his feet to see where he was standing then actually moving, checking if he wasn’t standing on someone’s grave. A queasy sensation now swirled in his stomach that only increased the more his brain started to make sense of where he was. His hand automatically moved up, covering his mouth, his fingers trembling against his cheek.
Nero walked over to a tarp and threw it open to reveal a fresh patch of earth. He took one of the shovels, rammed it into the earth and stepped back, his eyes on Lucas.
“Dig.”
It was like all the earth under his feet just crumbled and he fell into the darkest hole. A deep chill ran over his entire body and for a second he stood frozen in place.
He hesitantly took the shovel. Waited for some kind of explanation, which of course didn’t come. He glanced again from the grave to Nero, whose expectant gaze didn’t contain much patience.
This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. He cannot be serious. But Nero was always as serious as a heart attack as he had proven again and again.
His body moved on autopilot and he barely even noticed he was already digging.
Digging his own gr—no. No!
His logic centre was analysing the spare bits of dialogue and what had happened in great detail. Nero wouldn’t have said he’d had a job for him if he was just going to kill him. He would just grunt something along the lines of ‘follow me’ and give just as much explanation as he did now.
This was pure intimidation. Nothing more.
Emotion, however, easily overtook reason quickly; he couldn’t keep his legs from shaking. His heart was pounding. Another swirl of nausea washed over him and he thought he was actually going to be sick.
His battered body protested against the hard labour. Each scoop of dirt weighed a ton. And the thick roots didn’t make the dig any easier either. Every bruise and wound strained under the effort. His dislocated finger, while safely back in its joint and at least not broken, shot rays of pain up through his arm every time he lifted the shovel.
And every time he hit something more solid than just sand, his stomach lurched with fear that he just hit a dead body.
Luckily – or not, depending on what he was hoping for that very second – he didn’t stumble upon anything.
“Is this for me?” he finally unearthed enough courage to ask.
Nero remained as silent as the graves around him and just watched him.
“Because…” Lucas fought to suppress a hiccup and turned away to dig at a fresh corner. “I can do better. You don’t want to do this.”
The only sounds that followed were those of his shovel sticking into the earth and his own groans of effort. The silence was unbearable and only invited his mind to keep on screaming thoughts of doom even louder.
He blinked away tears. Swiped a sleeve over his forehead, pretending to wipe away beads of sweat.
“Whose grave am I digging?” he tried again after a while. “Whose graves are these?!”
Silence. Nero stood there, hands resting on the handle of another shovel, like a general looking down on his troops. His singular troop.
Slowly but surely and with tremendous effort, Lucas sank deeper into the ground and Nero loomed over him even more menacingly than ever.
His body was on the verge of collapse, but he would be damned (literally) if he were to succumb here and lie in his own grave. He was convinced he’d never open his eyes again if he took a break here. So he continued the assault on his body and mind purely on adrenaline.
Until finally, he heard the single saving word.
“Enough.” Nero beckoned him to come back up.
Lucas clambered out of the grave. It wasn’t a full six feet deep, but he still had to drag himself out on his front. He walked to the end of the grave, where Nero was pointing.
“Turn around.”
With a shudder, Lucas did as he was told and faced the grave, trying his best to keep his breathing steady and his tears from falling.
He waited for the hands on his neck. Just a twist and it would be over. Or would he blast him unconscious with the baton and just let him fall forward, cover him up, facedown into the—
Nero walked past him to stand on the side of the grave and Lucas exhaled.
“There are men buried here,” Nero started. “Some had the misfortune to die in an incident. Some were murdered by their fellow inmates. I made the killers dig the graves in the middle of a freezing night, as a warning.” He paused, and looked at one of the distinct patches of ground to his left.
Lucas briefly wondered if these killers were inside that patch now too or were still roaming around in the same prison he occupied… Both options seemed bad. Then again, he might have shared breakfast with other killers as well.
“Others, however,” Nero continued, and his voice grew more ominous. “Others didn’t, shall we say, have their own best interests in mind.”
Lucas nodded shakily, eager to show he was listening and learning. He could relate.
“Technically,” Nero continued in a lighter tone, “they aren’t dead. Their corpses lay here. But on paper, they’re still alive. Serving out the remainder of their sentence.”
In his state of mind, it took a while before all the ramifications actually fully hit his brain. Very far away in his brain, a shocked ‘oh my god’ kept rolling on repeat, but very numb and only focused on his own preservation. If he were to die here, now, no one would find out for a long time.
“So the question for you is: do you want to be alive? Or do you want to be alive on paper?”
“Alive! For real. No technicalities,” Lucas bumbled.
Nero looked at him for an uncomfortably long time.
“Very well.” He inspected the grave. “You can do the rest should I ever go back on that decision…”
Lucas nearly tipped over face-forward into the grave as every muscle unclenched in sheer relief. He stumbled as his knees gave but he forced himself not to collapse. Sharp inhales sounded like sobs, came back out shuddering.
“Put the tarp back and we’ll go.”
Words failed him so he just nodded and covered the grave. Where it would patiently wait for him.
The intense stress slowly left his body as they walked back and his brain started making connections again. Fear changed to bitterness.
“That man I found, my client…” he started, his tone clipped with repressed anger and his voice was shaky. “Why wasn’t he buried here?”
He heard a soft sigh behind him and Nero took a while to answer. “His condition worsened overnight and one of the guards thought it was best to call an ambulance. The man died on the way to hospital.”
Oversight. So Nero didn’t fully control everything yet. That lighted a very dim spark of hope.
Nero escorted him back to his cell.
“Enjoy the rest of your day off.” From anyone else, it would have been a cruel jab, but there was no malice in his tone and Nero marched off.
As soon as he was out of sight and earshot, Lucas finally had the luxury to give in to his body’s needs.
He collapsed right then and there. His knees hit the cell floor. His legs splayed out under him. He gulped in deep breaths, in and out, until they were no longer hitching or shaky.
He was alive.
And now that the fear of death had abated, the only thing that remained was rage.
He had to get word out. He had to!
Because Ava might not be able to set foot inside of this prison, she could still dig around for evidence outside of the grounds. And he would present it to her on a goddamn silver platter.
PLEASE HELP ME FIND THIS DEATH NOTE FANFICTION or I will COMBUST into FLAMES
so it's basically the mock execution gone wrong, light actually gets badly injured by the blank because (surprise!) realistically it would have caused some pretty serious brain damage, especially from that close of a distance.
so light goes into a coma, and it's very very well written especially from a medical point of view, it's centered around light's family and her sister, I'm not sure if it's lawlight or not, it's pretty long, it's completed.
content: pet whump (bbu), animal (and human) death mention, mock execution, an absolute lack of gun safety
this is what klaus was alluding to in shanghai rummy ii.
------
Despite his reluctance to go with Klaus, Port was grateful to get moving again. He had all his clothes back on, thank goodness, though they were still damp and sticking to his legs.
Goosebumps rose on his skin as the breeze kissed his face, filtering through the trees. They moved upwind so their scent wouldn’t carry. Last night’s rain had made the ground soft, but there were still plenty of sounds that might give them away. Port watched each step for twigs that might crack under his boot, treading with caution. It was slow-going.
Klaus strode beside him, pleasantly silent, ready to take aim with the shotgun at any moment. Port was thankful to have made it thirty minutes without incident— just as he thought this, there was a rustle ahead of them. Klaus tugged on Port’s arm, encouraging him to stop.
A small deer emerged from the underbrush not even twenty yards from where they stood. Its ears looked almost too big for its head. No antlers. Spots. Porter watched intently, completely still, as it stepped carelessly into their path. A fawn.
Port glanced at Klaus. He didn’t have a taste for baby deer, did he? To his alarm, Klaus was slowly raising the gun.
“Sir!” he whispered, before he could stop himself. The fawn’s ear twitched at the sound. Klaus saw the look on Port’s face and grinned at him, tongue between his teeth, as the fawn stared frozen with its round black eyes.
Klaus winked. “I’m just fuckin’ with ya,” he said. He jabbed the gun in the deer’s direction. “Git!” he told it.
The fawn jerked away and bleated, bounding back into the bush. Port watched it disappear, feeling some amount of relief wash over him.
“The momma’s probably nearby,” Klaus said. “We’ll let her walk, too, if we see her. Bambi made me cry when I was kid, y’know. I’m not that heartless.”
The name sparked a vague memory, a slight pressure in his head. He tried to imagine a little round-faced Klaus sitting in front of the TV with tears in his eyes. The image didn’t come easily. “The movie?” he asked.
“Yep. Made me imagine my own momma.” He started moving again, approaching where the fawn stood mere moments before. “It’s funny. She was the first person to ever take me hunting.” He tipped his head. “It was for rabbits, though. Not deer.”
Port dropped his eyes as he fell into step beside him, unsure how to react. “She sounds nice.”
“Ha!” Klaus barked far too loud. Something skittered away in the grass. “Nice is a long shot. She was a real tough lady— army woman and all that. But I was always a momma’s boy.”
Port felt a little sick.
~~~
It was only ten minutes before Klaus broke the silence again. “This is kinda like walking my dog,” he said. “But you bark less.”
Port wasn’t too fond of the description. “Is that so?”
“Maybe. I don't know if you’re as obedient as him.” He stopped abruptly. “Hey.”
Port stopped beside him, confused. He looked around, seeing nothing but trees and their waving branches. “Sir?”
“Roll over,” Klaus commanded.
Port stared blankly.
“Shake?” Klaus held out a hand.
Port side-eyed him heavily.
“Come onnn,” he coaxed.
Port tentatively grasped his hand, displeased about it. This was beneath him— and Port didn’t think such a thing very often.
“You’re a shit dog,” Klaus said, dipping his hand. “Could work on a few things, I think.”
The criticism should mean nothing to him, but his heart still sunk. “My master didn’t teach me any tricks."
“Really? You’re wearing a dog collar with your name on it, for Christ’s sake.”
“It’s a collar for humans,” Port said, oddly defensive.
He huffed. “If you say so.” Klaus' hand reached for his throat and he jerked back without thinking.
“Sorry, sir,” he apologized immediately, baring his neck to Klaus in submission. “I’m sorry.” Pulling away has always been a punishable offense.
Klaus just smiled like it was funny, dropping his hand.
~~~
"I’ve been meanin' to ask, are you from around here?”
They were still walking, but Port figured any game had long cleared away by now at the sound of their voices. Klaus seemed to have stopped caring.
“I’m not really sure, sir.” Mr. Oz had told him before that he had an Eastern drawl, much like Klaus. Port wouldn’t know his origins, especially considering he didn’t even know his own age, but he’d take his word for it.
“Oh," Klaus said, brow furrowing. “I forgot about that. You really can’t remember?”
“No, sir.”
He hummed. “Y’know, I’ve never interacted with one of you up close and personal before.”
Port glanced at him sidelong.
“I was kinda nervous to meet you, isn’t that funny? I thought you might be… I dunno, weird, or somethin’.”
Port’s lip quirked. “Am I weird?”
“A little. No offense.”
“I don’t take offense, sir.”
Klaus stepped on a fallen branch, and it cracked. A squirrel scurried up a nearby tree.
“So are you, like, genetically modified to have suppressed emotions?”
“Uh, not as far as I’m aware, sir.”
“It’s all training?”
Port toed a small patch of mushrooms as he walked by. It was easy to forget how uninformed many people were about the system. “Yes, sir. It’s a nine month program.” The first one was, at least. It wasn’t something he liked to reminisce about. He couldn’t remember it very well, anyway, after the second dose. Sometimes he wondered how it stuck so well.
“What did they do to you?”
Whether he was asking out of morbid curiosity or a sick interest, Port couldn’t tell. The skin under his collar started to itch. He couldn’t touch it. “I can’t discuss it, sir. It’s confidential.”
“Hm.”
Port looked at his boots. The toes were covered in mud.
“It’s not always effective though, is it? Someone could break through.”
Port grew more uncomfortable with each question. “It’s very effective, sir.”
“I’ve heard the ones with bad behavior get put down. I guess that’s anecdotal, but I believe it. Did you know the maximum punishment for killin' one of you is only 5 years?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s a pretty light punishment for taking a human life, don’t ya think?”
Port swallowed. “The law’s the law.”
He saw Klaus’s face turn towards him out of the corner of his eye. “So you don’t care?”
“I don’t have an opinion, sir,” he said curtly.
“What would you do if someone tried to kill you?”
Port’s lips pressed together.
“Well?” he pressed.
“I don’t know.”
Klaus threw his head back. “Ah, that’s a cop-out. Won’t you have a philosophical discussion with me? What, you don’t like philosophy?”
Port stepped over a moss-covered log, lips tight. A beetle crawled across the fuzzy green. “I dunno anythin’ about philosophy.”
“You’ll face the consequences for defending yourself, right? Damned if ya do, damned if ya don’t. I think that’s kinda fucked up. You can’t really blame a dog for biting if you try to hurt it.”
“I’m not a dog,” Port snapped.
Klaus stopped in his tracks. “Whoa. Did I offend you?”
Port squeezed his eyes shut, a few strides ahead of Klaus. He should probably apologize for his tone. It was disrespectful. But Klaus wasn’t his master. Did he warrant respect?
“I don’t take offense,” he said slowly.
Klaus said nothing. Port stared straight ahead, dreading what Klaus might do next. Was he angry? Did he care? Did he find it funny? Port hardly knew him at all.
Something clicked behind him. The hair on the back of his neck stood up on end.
He turned around, slowly.
Port found himself staring down the barrel of the gun.
Klaus was wearing a sinister sort of smile on his face, all white teeth. “I could just shoot you right now. Isn’t that crazy?” His finger hovered by the trigger, not quite touching. “I’d probably just get a slap on the wrist. I’ll say I thought you were a deer.”
Port’s heart had gone rabbit-quick in mere seconds. He raised his hands in surrender, fingers trembling with adrenaline.
“Nothin’ to say?”
There was ice inside of him. A bird whistled somewhere above his head, above the blood rushing in his ears. “Don’t shoot me,” he got out.
“Compelling argument.”
Port took a step back, away from the black hole of the shotgun. Klaus took a threatening step forward in turn.
“What’s the point of this?” he asked.
Klaus shrugged, shotgun bobbing. “I dunno. I think it’s funny.”
The ice inside him grew colder, colder. So cold it turned white-hot. It burned deep inside of him, beside the fear. “That’s the only reason?”
“Consider this punishment for not rolling over when I asked you to. You deserve it.”
You deserve this. You deserve this. You deserve
“Do you disagree?”
Port felt his lip curl, a wrinkle form between his eyebrows. “Am I even human to you?”
“I mean—“
Port flinched hard at the gunshot.
A part of him was convinced Klaus had just pulled the trigger. But as he focused on each part of his body— chest, stomach, arms, legs— he felt no pain. The gunshot echoed, distant. Klaus turned towards the sound, gun dipping.
Port didn’t even think about it. He lunged and grabbed it by the barrel, twisting until it broke free of Klaus’ grip. He spun it around and pointed it at Klaus’ chest, moving back several feet. He didn’t touch the trigger. Not yet.
The sheer shock on Klaus’ face was almost comical. His hands flew up in a mirror of Port’s earlier. “Whoa, whoa! I was just playing, Porter! I was just playing! You know that.” His teeth were now bared in a nervous, placating smile. His eyes revealed his fear. “Come on, now. Put the gun down.”
The sharp pain behind Porter’s eye had come back in earnest. His temples felt tight. He didn’t want to shoot Klaus. It was something he couldn’t come back from.
The last thing he killed…
“You were going to kill me,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I won’t let you kill me.” He wasn’t a dog. And he wasn’t a fucking deer, either. He wasn’t going to stand around and get shot and gutted and eaten.
Klaus backed up. “You know better,” he pleaded. The heel of his boot caught on a log and he lost his footing, tripping and landing in the dirt. Being below Port’s level seemed to make him panic more.
Port’s entire body was screaming at him to drop the gun. To kneel. To beg. He only gripped it tighter.
“I was joking, Porter, joking! I wasn’t really gonna shoot you, kid. It’s not that serious.” His hand had moved to hover in front of his face like it might stop a bullet from piercing his skull. It was shaking.
Where had he heard that before? It was a joke, man! It’s not that serious. Come on.
It meant nothing to him. “I won’t let you hurt anyone anymore,” he whispered.
“Nobody’s gettin’ hurt! Jesus, Port. Will just put that thing down? Please?” His voice pitched more frantic, eyes locked on the barrel. His forehead shone with sweat under the brim of his hat.
Port wanted to live so badly.
He couldn’t pull the trigger, because he’d be put down, or worse. Wiped clean and resold at a discount.
Port circled him, cautiously, gun aimed true all the while. Klaus turned with him, still on the ground. He stepped away further, slowly. Then he spun around and ran back the way they came.
He leapt over rocks, dodged through the trees. Shit— he still had the shotgun. He should ditch it. Or— or should he keep it? Would it incriminate him? He whirled around, looking for somewhere to throw it. He spotted a fallen tree overgrown with plant life.
If Klaus came across it, Port didn't want him to be able to come back with a vengeance. He searched for the action release and pressed it, pumping the gun until every round came out. They dropped to the ground one by one. He tucked it by the tree and hastily scooped the shells up, shoving them in his pockets. He wiped his dirty hands on his pants.
He rushed past a familiar mushroom patch here, a stump there. It felt like mere minutes before the rickety deer stand came back in sight. It was lot faster to sprint through the woods than to stalk through them.
In the distance he could see Mr. Oz emerging at the top of the stairs. He stared confusedly at Port, who was probably making a hell of a ruckus. Concern crossed his face, stance tightening.
Port slowed, gasping, lungs aching. He stopped nearly at the base. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or terrified now that he had made it back to his master.
He dropped to his knees. His legs felt weak, the adrenaline making him woozy. He let his forehead touch the dead leaves and dirt. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to the mud. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Reading my drafts and came across an entire post about mock executions, how they’re a form of psychological torture, and how something similar can apply to killer and likely dust as well on a more pervasive and severe level what was I on about bro
Tw: Implication of children/a child being potentially hurt (nothing actually happens in this), threats, aaaaaaand suicide. Look after yourself, yeah?
(This is no longer canon, as it doesn't fit the new characterisations.)
"You need to leave Child alone." Henchman had rehearsed the sentence over and over again, hoping his voice wouldn't shake.
"Hello, how are you?" The amused lilt to Villain's words made it quite clear how badly it had failed, but was also a distant relief.
Henchman's words stuck in his throat even after he processed what Villain had said, every possible response tasting of danger on his tongue.
He couldn't mess this up.
"Jealousy, I expect from Sidekick," Villain unfurled from the absurd pose he was working in, the materials floating back to their places without his speech even stuttering. "But I rather thought you were smarter than her."
"I'm not jealous." That was practically the opposite problem. Henchman did know how much more grace Villain gave him and Sidekick than he did others, after all.
"No?" Villain laughed. "Then where does this insubordination come from?" What kind of question even was that!
"Where- She's just a kid! She hasn't done anything!" He knew the mistake as the words left his mouth, Villain's practically ever present smile sliding off of the ice cold expression underneath.
"She's mortal. You always do something eventually." He floated down to sit on the workbench, freeing more of his power for- No. Henchman couldn't think about that, not now. "And are you not getting a sense of deja-vu? We've been over this. You can't stop me."
No. He couldn't. But maybe...
"I'll go to Anti-Villain." Villain scoffed at the suggestion.
"And I'm sure you think he'll welcome you back, after everything you've done?" Henchman wasn't stupid enough to interrupt, but the reminder of how little Villain thought of him still stung. "No, he'll kill you if you walk in his door."
A heavy sigh. Henchman dragged his eye open again, only to find Villain so deep in his blind spot he was practically breathing in his ear.
Henchman hit a table in his scramble to get away, and ended up half collapsed onto it.
"Well then." Villain's frozen anger had been replaced with simple annoyance - not that he was in any less danger for it. "If you're so sure you're willing to die for them, no need to drag Anti-Villain in."
One of Villain's guns floated between them, close enough to touch. Not aimed, yet.
"Put this to your head and pull the trigger, and I swear I will bring no harm to her."
Oh.
He- Villain kept his promises. If Henchman went to Anti-Villain everything was maybes, but...
The choice should have been easy.
"Eh, what the hell. No harm to any of the kids. The brats are basically indistinguishable anyway."
Henchman took the gun.
Sidekick would mourn, probably. He distantly wondered what Villain would tell her. Whether she would ask.
A chilling dampness started spreading on the left side of his collar.
Between one blink and the next the barrel's cool pressure appeared on his temple.
One small little squeeze left.
Henchman swallowed down a sob as he pulled the trigger.
Click.
He barely heard the noise over the pounding in his ears. He generally found gunshots to be louder than that.
The handle slipped out of his trembling fingers, and the gun clattered on the hard stone.
Henchman's knees followed suit.
The blooming pain pulled him back to his body, and his fast but shallow breath anchored him there.
He wasn't dead.
He wasn’t dead, or dying.
He wasn't dead or dying, and Villain was putting the gun away again.
"Oh come on, surely you didn't think I'd hand you a loaded gun after you just threatened me?"
Yes, he had. He knew bullets wouldn't work on Villain.
And he would never. Not to the man who'd made him.
"Shoo. Take the rest of the day off."
"I- Boss?" Villain didn't- didn't do that.
"Unless you really think you need more of a punishment?" More familiar ground, although that did nothing to smother the rising fear.
"No! No- I'm- please."
"Shoo."
Henchman pulled himself together enough to teleport before Villain went for a third repetition, landing roughly on his bed.
