Warnings: kidnapping, threats of violence, threats of death, gun, gunshot
Whumpee sat down on the riverbank, watching the water flow lazily by. It had been a while since they had come to the riverside and think. It was peaceful and quiet here. They needed to sit and think. So much had happened in such a short time. They just needed some time to process.
Their phone buzzed in their pocket. Whumpee pulled it out. Caretaker.
As much as they wanted to speak with Caretaker, to explain themself, they needed more time to think. More time to process and gather their thoughts. So they could explain everything.
"Put that down," a voice that had Whumpee's heart seizing in their chest. Whumpee heard the sound of a revolver being cocked. "I won't ask a second time."
Whumpee tossed their phone out of reach. "You don't have to do this," they began. They could talk Whumper out of this. They had to.
"You're right. I don't. But I want to." Whumper stepped in close to Whumpee, pressing the gun to the back of Whumpee's head.
"Where are you taking me?" Whumpee tried and failed to keep the fear out of their voice.
"Where no one will find you." And Whumper lifted the gun and fired it next to Whumpee's ear.
“You stupid bastard.” The chief overseer chuckled, gaze alight with burgeoning pleasure at the prospect of fresh, brutal punishment. “You thought you could get away with this? You? Really? You really thought you could escape?”
The prisoner writhed in his chains. Took a boot to his back. Fell still.
“String him up over there,” said the overseer, pointing. “Let’s learn what happens to disobedient dogs who try to run.”
A tall wooden pole, hung with metal chains and wreathed in barbed wire.
He screamed, skin torn open and shredded as he was slammed against the pole and chained in place.
Want to see what this scene might look like? Check out some art here.
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Cw: kidnapping, capture, betrayal, backstabbing (Both literal and metaphorical), injuries, blood, implied torture, restraints, abuse, sort of a breakdown maybe, absolutely zero plot
Hero was crying.
Hot, thick tears sliding down their flushed cheeks, their head already beginning to thrum with the ache of dehydration, but that discomfort was lost in the sea of distress, both emotional and physical.
Their arms were sore, shoulders straining from where their wrists were cuffed behind their back, elbows pulled close together with a cord that wrapped around their chest as well, hindering all movement except for some stray twitches. The restraints were like wire around their wrists, cables that bit into their joints and pinched their skin between the creases, digging in and drawing beads of red.
Their jaw ached, forced open unnaturally with the knotted leather sitting heavy on their tongue, makeshift gag tied tight around the back of their head, Hero was sure there would be marks left over when it was finally taken off.
Their legs were bound in a similar manner as their arms, secured at the ankles and then just above their knees with the thick cords. Their uniform, once a clean, thigh covering, was in tatters, partially from the battle, partially from the defeat, and partially from the abuse they’d suffered at the henchmen’s hands directly following. Bruised and bloody, skin littered with scrapes and mottled splotches of color, still the physical pain hadn’t amounted to anywhere near what they were trying to process.
Sidekick had betrayed them. Stabbed them in the back—literally. The wound wasn’t fatal, more towards their shoulder than any vitalities, but holy hell did it hurt. It was deep enough for even one of the henchman to recognize, after the collective had finished beating the crap out of Hero, and had taken the time to scavenge for some bandages and gauze to at slow the bleeding “until they got back and Boss can decide whether or not to let them bleed out”.
They had given a whole monologue while Hero, injured and exhausted, was overrun by henchmen. Hero hadn’t been able to hear them too well, between the commotion, pain, and ringing in their ears, but they think they were able to catch the idea.
I’ve lived in your shadow for so long. I will finally be seen. It’s my turn to get the credit—something like that.
Hero had never thought of Sidekick as a sidekick. Hell no. They were incredibly talented, gifted. The only reason their rank was “sidekick” was because that’s how it fucking worked—Academy graduates who joined the Agency were automatically given the role, placed under the guidance of a Hero who would help acclimate them to the job, get them prepared for when they no longer needed surveillance. “Sidekick” was never meant to last longer than a year, maybe two depending on the needs of the trainee. Hero had thought Sidekick knew that. They had only been six months in, but Hero had been getting ready to sign off the documents supporting their promotion. Sidekick was brilliant and strong, and as far as Hero knew they had never treated them any different than they would treat their colleagues.
Apparently Sidekick didn’t see things the same way. That hurt more than a blade ever could.
Then Sidekick turned and walked away. Not even glancing back as Hero struggled futilely against their assailants, screaming and begging for Sidekick to help, to not leave them. Yeah, not Hero’s proudest moment.
Neither was this.
After they had been subdued, beaten, and finally restrained, the henchmen had shoved them blindfolded into the back of a van, they had been driven for nearly two hours, along a roughly paved road with sharp turns, until they had arrived at what Hero could only assume was a lair. From there, they had been dragged down a few halls, and kicked into a cell, the henchmen not even bothering to remove their blindfold. Hero, after spending a good five minutes sobbing and squirming on the cell ground, fought for their bearings and was able to curl their knees up, then rub their face awkwardly against them until the blindfold came loose.
They almost wished they hadn’t.
The room they were thrown into wasn’t quite a cell, as they had originally thought. They had been dumped close to a wall, which they now leaned heavily against, not wanting to put themself in such a compromising position as laying down. The walls were made of slick, cold white tiles, leading to a paneled ceiling with a grid of thin, sturdy beams bolted across. From that hung all sorts of things that made Hero’s stomach twist with nausea. Shackles, bars, pulley systems, they saw a shower head in the far corner, protruding straight from an exposed pipe, dripping quietly over a drain.
In the center of the room there was a large metal table, maybe three feet wide and triple that long. Around various parts, long leather straps not dissimilar from belts hung off. The table itself was steady, welded over another drain, the floor underneath slightly discolored with the faint stain of bleach. Against one wall, furthest from Hero, there was a desk of sorts, framed with two tall cabinets and then a counter to the side of that. The drawers resembled those of a filing cabinet, each with a small key lock keeping them sealed. There were two cameras that Hero could see, in opposite corners casting the whole room under surveillance.
The worst thing, Hero thought, was the small wire crate only a few feet to their left. It wouldn’t have been big enough for an average dog, but Hero had a sickening feeling that it was not intended to house a pet.
Another sob was choked in their throat, the gag soaked through with coppery tasting saliva. Hero squeezed their eyes shut and pressed their head back hard against the wall, as if that would ease any aspect of their situation.
They were to wait for a long time, long enough for their arms to go completely numb, before the door finally opened.
——————————————
I’m so done with this piece
Yes this is the exact setting I’m envisioning for what I’m about to do to Noah. I’m in a mood ok. Sue me.
@themerrywhumpofmay: under the table
@mediwhumpmay: needle phobia
*Writing a little backward to post in order of days. Day 8 begins a day of health exams for the medics to do. This is one of them.*
The condition Jamie has is made up.
"Jamie is one of the next three," Jolt tells the other two medics.
"You say that like she's a challenge," Jasmine comments.
"Up until I need to draw blood, she's fine. You know why I need to get a blood sample from her. Even if I could prick her finger and use that small amount, she'll put up a fight."
To make matters worse, Jamie's guardians, Crosshairs and Drift, must work today. Drift is particularly not pleased that Prowl wouldn't let him be twenty minutes late, and even the Autobots he works with argued it would be fine. The three medics know he does not like how Jamie will fight the medics, and it's not just shoving the medics away.
"It's interesting how a warrior can be terrified of needles. Especially when your other fearful patient is Sunstreaker; with the life he and Sideswipe had, you'd think he wouldn't be terrified of needles," Drift comments and leaves.
Ratchet says nothing about drawing blood when he walks into the room. The exam went as he thought; he checked everything he needed, which didn't require Jamie to change. The second he said 'draw blood,' Jamie got anxious; he tries to keep her calm, which results in him being shoved back to the counters. The other two medics are in their offices when they see Jamie run past them.
Sunstreaker walks down the hall to the training room, watching the medics leave the medbay. He didn't think Ratchet would tell him what was going on, and he's still determining whether it's Ratchet's way of telling him he's to help.
If I didn't see her run by me, then there are only two places she could be, but only one is a good hiding place. Sunstreaker thinks and goes into the confidence room.
The room isn't used often, and Sunstreaker can see that the next meeting isn't scheduled for another week; the last meeting was two months ago. With how the chairs are, he sees Jamie once he gets on the floor and moves a couple of chairs.
"Why do you have the medics panicking?" He asks. Once Jamie said 'health exam,' he understood the problem, "hiding here isn't helping. Come on."
Jamie doesn't move back to get away from Sunstreaker, who thought Jamie would put up a fight.
"...I need to monitor the chemical level," Ratchet explains, "be happy I can get a blood sample every six months."
The two mechs hate how Jamie is getting anxious. Sunstreaker knows holding Jamie while Ratchet does what he needs won't help much, but he knows the risk if he tells Ratchet to forget about the blood sample.
Sunstreaker is hoping loosely restraining js enough. Both mechs hate how Jamie is crying, and Sunstreaker thought that's all the two would deal with until Jamie passed out just as Ratchet finished.
"Frag, that's never happened before," Ratchet worries, "but she should be ok. Just make sure she drinks water when she wakes up."
Ratchet caps the vial and leaves the room.
Sunstreaker knows Ratchet isn't more worried about testing the blood sample than how Jamie is unconscious.
Sideswipe, are you done teaching your class? Sunstreaker asks through the bond. Jamie needs cheering up.
Sunstreaker didn't think Sideswipe would worry and ask questions. He tells Sideswipe he'll explain in hopefully ten minutes.
Jamie wakes up as the conversation ends.
"You're ok. Here drink some water,' Sunstreaker hands her his water bottle, "once Ratchet says we can leave, we'll meet Sideswipe in the lounge room."
Sideswipe thought he could multitask by playing video games with Jamie and talking to Sunstreaker through their bond so Jamie doesn't hear them, but he loses the race to Jamie within five minutes, which Jamie thinks is funny.
Later that day, Sunstreaker asks Ratchet how necessary a blood sample is.
"It's not so much to detect a flare-up," Ratchet explains, "that's impossible. There's an interesting interaction between Saiyan blood and the chemical, and it's hard to explain in simple terms. It's been working like a medication to limit the severe flare-ups.
So other methods, like a urine test, won't work. Sunstreaker regrets figuring it out.
"Have you researched Energon helping her?"
"No, with how different Jamie is from other humans, I worry there will be consequences that I won't be able to discover before a transfusion. The obvious is the Saiyan blood, and there's too much unknown that I won't be able to get answers for. I know it's been eleven years since I've gotten a blood sample from her, and I am curious if this has been kept up, but the results weren't saved. Even if the others didn't keep up this schedule, I'd rather get back to it."
Sunstreaker understands why and doesn't argue. He doesn't think he'll be able to understand how Saiyan blood works like medication. He only hopes Ratchet figures out a cure soon.
She met his eye then, waiting for him to finish his thought. His question. His implicit accusation.
“Unkind.”
She smiled, not hiding the sweep of her gaze over his collarbone, where the brand, the evidence of his crime, lay concealed beneath his shirt. “He would never hurt me,” she said evenly. “He respects his brother’s memory too much.”
“His brother’s memory,” he echoed. “Nobody else?”
She appeared to realize then what she’d said; her gaze wavered. “He’d never hurt me,” she repeated.
The fugitive let the conversation lapse. For everyone’s sake, he hoped what she said was true.
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All my writing is original. Feel welcome to interact/comment/reblog. Pls don’t steal or repost.
Omen opened their eyes, gasping, choking. Their eyes stung with water and their head throbbed. Skull felt split open. Can’t. Move. Can’t. Breathe.
Within a moment, Omen realized that their hands were bound behind them. Their ankles were bound together. And there was a gag in their mouth.
They were wet but they weren’t drowning. Small mercies.
Omen squinted up at the man holding a dripping bucket over them.
“Good.” He said and set down the bucket. “I was beginning to think that I’d bludgeoned you a little too hard.”
The man was dressed in a fine, dark doublet and hose that were stained lightly with travel. He moved to sit down at a nearby table.
Omen flexed their calf. He had missed the knife in their boot. Interesting.
Omen eyed the room.
This was some sort of cottage. The floorboards creaked and were caked with dust. The fireplace had been lit but was belching smoke, meaning it hadn’t been cleaned recently. There was a lit lantern on the single table. And the window to the outside, beside the only door, spoke of midafternoon or late morning. The sun was bright and the trees swayed in a breeze, creating a shifting dappled effect on the floor.
Omen could only hear the crackling fire and birdsong from outside. They were alone.
Their possessions were tossed to the side, laying haphazardly on the floor. But nothing had been searched yet. Caey was safe. For now.
Omen was laying on the floor, so that when the man sat down, he was still looming above them.
“I’ve been looking for you for a while.” The man took a swig from a waterskin. “You’re difficult to find, girl.”
Omen winced at ‘girl’. It shouldn’t have bothered them. That was the least of their problems right now.
The man continued talking. “I’d been hearing rumors for a while of a girl fighting in the False Queen’s little band. A girl matching the description of someone I killed several years ago.”
Omen’s belly turned to ice and they stopped breathing.
“I was contracted to kill a highborn lady suspected of aiding the escaped False Queen. And I did so. She was easy to identify due to a mark on her wrist, a brand. A very-”
The man roughly reached down and yanked on Omen’s bound arms.
They cried out through the gag. Arms pulled into a painful twist, shoulder sockets screaming.
“A very distinctive mark.” The man breathed, looking down at Omen’s wrist.
The wrist that bore the brand that he spoke of.
The man, the assassin from all those years ago, released Omen’s wrist, letting them fall back to the dusty floor.
“So, you lived.” He murmured.
Omen grunted around the gag.
The assassin leaned down and pulled the gag out. “Where is the False Queen?”
“Fuck off.” Omen spat.
He popped the gag back in, wound back his foot, and kicked Omen in the stomach. Hard.
Omen struggled to draw breath. The wind was knocked out of them. Before they could recover, there was another vicious kick.
A blow to their nose. Stars. Blinding pain. Watering eyes. Blood streamed down their face and trickled into their throat. Metallic and hot.
Omen writhed, crying out through the gag.
They arched their back. Reached with bound hands into their boot. Felt the slim, bone knife handle, warm with body heat. Good.
They grasped it and hid it behind their body, working on the bonds as best as they could.
The assassin paced around the cottage.
Omen sliced their fingers and hands. The knife was sharp. Blood made the process slippery.
“I’m going to ask you again.” The man circled back around to them.
The rope was cut. The bonds loosened. Omen pulled free.
“And if you say-”
Omen hurled the knife. It stuck neatly in the assassin’s shoulder.
He bellowed.
Omen rolled away, under the table, and began to attack the rope that bound their ankles. Halfway through, the assassin came at them, their own bone-handled knife in hand. Omen scrabbled back with their legs untangled and the rope in hand.
They leapt on the man.
Spat blood in his face.
And it was quick work after that.
Several minutes later, Omen stood. Head throbbing, nose swollen and bleeding, and ribs maybe broken. They wiped off the knife and placed it back in their boot.
They limped over to their pack and belongings. With cut and bleeding hands, they prepared to leave. The diadem still lay within their pack. As soon as they touched it, Caey spoke into their thoughts.
“You look terrible. What happened?”
Omen snorted and spat blood onto the cottage floor. “It’s a long story.”
