Hello amazing writer! I was wondering if I could request a fic where the whumpee just cannot be broken, and in the end, defeat their captor? Thank you.
Oh, Anon I thought you’d never ask, (Also I cannot accept that title, but gosh almighty I’m flattered, thank you Anon, you’re way too good to me!) I’m a huge sucker for this prompt, I feel like it’s a trope we really don’t see enough. Everyone wants broken characters who forget everything about themselves and suffer until that’s all they are anymore (Don’t get me wrong, I like that too sometimes) but man, oh, man I love a good unbreakable whumpee staring at the whumper and just going: “No.”
To sum up because I got super long winded:
Me: Big sucker
You: Really exceptional at submitting prompts/requests
I hope you get to be as happy today as you made me by requesting this! (That means standing in a forest far from the city and your flashlight burnt out, marveling at all of the silent darkness gathering around you comfortingly like a cloak.
You superb forest spirit you. Live your dreams.
(Also this came out a tad darker than I expected, but never let it be said I’m all cotton candy clouds and sunbeams and never gunmetal and alleyway gravel, I am gunmetal flavored cotton candy clouds goshdarnit!)
Also long, so sorry! (If for any reason this isn’t what you envisioned I can scratch this and do it again but slightly to the left, just let me know!)
He’d been at it for three weeks.
When he’d agreed to take this job it had seemed easy enough, get the message runner to turn on their friends, and collect fifty G’s for their troubles, and an additional ten for every address that the messenger coughed up.
He expected to be able to induce one hell of a case of pneumonia in the delivery boy.
The Whumper was meticulous, he’d done his research, the messenger didn’t come from a violent background, he had a solid head on his shoulders, and was a little on the younger side, all of this made getting information easier.
He’d been proved correct when they’d grabbed them on the street, at the first growled threat of starting to attack bystanders the messenger had hardened up, clenched their mouth in a firm line, (as if he couldn’t see their lower lip tremble) and come quietly. Idealists were very easy to deal with if you knew how to get to them.
And of course the man did. Sometimes when he was between jobs he wondered if he should teach a class: Interrogation for the financially unstable and morally questionable. He’d make a shit ton of money too, nobody was better than him, he’d gotten hardcore family guys to break in just 16 hours, they’d cried and begged for forgiveness afterward, but he’d informed them rather helpfully that he wasn’t a priest and that they could shove it. In fact he’d never met anyone he couldn’t get to turn inside of a week, and that was hardened career criminals!
At least he hadn’t until he’d taken the messenger.
The man had been interrogating and enforcing for all sorts of people for almost twenty years now, working with the Foresters for almost ten, he’d gotten good at ‘reading the room’ so to speak. He’d expected the ‘canary’ to start singing long before he’d even gotten him to the abandoned motel on the outskirts of town, he seemed the skittish types, he had figured it wouldn’t even progress into too much violence, let alone anything heavy.
This delivery boy was just a kid after all, some idealistic fool that had picked the wrong side in this when the Foresters had taken over. No biggie.
But he’d been wrong, so wrong, for the first time in his career, now looking at him, still tired pitifully to the chair, hanging against the zip ties that held him there, not even seeming to care that they bit viciously into his skin. In short the guy was wrecked, beaten repeatedly until his upper body was mainly one solid bruise, a rainbow of muddy painful color and swelling, beaten until his eyes swelled almost closed and teeth were knocked out, beaten bloody and senseless time and time again.
And still he’d said nothing!
He’d given no names other than his own which the man had already known and not cared about, to the man the messenger was a tool, an unwilling Swiss army knife that worked to make him money, but boy, that guy had to have some screws loose or something, the man had never had anyone last this long without breaking!
He’d tried electricity then, jolting him until he convulsed without the aid of the rusty clamps. Until he went into shock and the man had had to take a break so that he didn’t kill him without getting what he’d wanted from him.
When he’d come back from that place of panic the man had threatened him again with the electricity, knowing that he couldn’t use it again so soon but hoping for a chink in the armor, a ray of wicked hope…
“I’ll keep going until your skin sizzles off, tell me the names!” He’d struck him, making the chair wobble under the force of his blow, “You smell that burning? It’s you! You’re fried, dead already, so tell me the names! Where are your contacts?!” He’d screamed in his face, expecting tears and a final break through, that was what normally happened to him.
But the messenger had smiled weakly up at him, his head only being held up by the man’s grip in his tangle of dirty dark hair, “If M’dead, th-then thanks, S’been a pl-pleasure,” the messenger had rasped back between shallow panting breathes, causing the man to let go of his hair with a sneer of disgust, the messenger’s head hung limply on his chest, “Dead m-men tell-tell n-no tales,” he’d gurgled through the blood in his mouth, choking and wheezing through his ground up lungs.
This was when the man had decided to get serious, that has been five days ago, and other than bodily the delivery boy hadn’t broken at all.
He’d broken his knees, his hands, bone by bone listening to him cry, and then the odd shell shocked silence accompanying each snap for the other hand, he figured his boy had been though some trauma that hadn’t been in the file. At this point the man started to respect him, just a little, nothing crazy, he’d decided that when the time came and he’d gotten what he’d wanted, he was going to kill the messenger cleanly and end his suffering the quick way, not his normal triple gut shot and then bounce routine he’d relied on for years.
If he broke that was. It was starting to seem doubtful.
Finally, he’d caved and decided that it was today or never, his boy the messenger didn’t have many days left in him as it was, he’d taken his long Bowie knife and driven it through him and into the chair on the other side, the guy was too far out of it to do much more that gasp and shudder.
“Tell me,” the man had said gently, cupping the messenger’s chin in his large bloody hand to lift it up, something the messenger had lost the strength to do more than a week ago, “Tell me and I’ll end it right now, no more hurting, Tell me and I’ll let you rest in peace.”
The messenger didn’t respond, he continued to gasp for breath that didn’t seem to come, to the man it seemed like his messenger was emulating a fish left to die on a dock, so close to the water, so close he could smell it, but instead he’d chosen to dry drown.
The messenger was looking him straight in the eye, for some reason this made the man uncomfortable, he’d killed several people in his days, in fact, he’d go so far as to say he’d killed a lot of people, women, men, no kids on purpose, but sometimes when you’re working with the Foresters you gotta fish or cut bait.
And he’d always been a fishing man.
But the way that this unbreakable delivery boy was looking him in the eyes while they could both hear his blood dripping onto the old mud caked carpet felt deeply wrong, and the man looked away before the messenger did, feeling not exactly guilt or empathy, but as close to it as he’d come in a great long time.
The man was shaken, just enough to go out and smoke a few cigarettes until his hands stopped shaking. When he’d finished his third he decided that he was probably just hungry, maybe he needed to sleep, this kind of work took a lot out of a person, and he’d been at it a long time.
Three weeks.
Longer even than when he’d had to get Mal Gerring’s number from his favored son and lieutenant Paulie Gerring, that had been before the Foresters had taken over, crime had been better organized then, not on the books in your face like it was now, but there had been something to admire about it. The romance of seedy hotels and driving his beat up car around the country, listening to regional radio and chain smoking, taking body parts back to waring mob families… Now he had a nice car that had cost more than his first house, but the job hadn’t changed–it never did, just the people paying changed.
He sighed in nostalgia as he watched the sky darken, Paulie had only lasted five days. Message boy had him beat by two weeks. Maybe no more after this, maybe the messenger was his last, maybe he’d teach that class to other guys the Forester’s wanted to hire, working for the government had a lot of benefits–especially for the morally questionable.
The man shook his head, if he hadn’t been busy reminiscing, if he hadn’t been so sure that he was the best, he might have heard the stood creak, he’d untied the messenger days ago, he hadn’t thought he’d been able to move if he could barely hold his head up, plus with the mangled hands he didn’t think he’d be able to do much harm.
For the second time in his long and questionably successful life the man was wrong.
Before he realized what was happening there was a sharp pain in the men’s temple, a crushing thunk that faded almost immediately to darkness, he didn’t even have the time to groan before he lost consciousness and slipped into the inevitable.
Standing, or rather, sort of hunched over kind of holding himself up on the raining and swaying violently over him the messenger dropped his weapon, it was the handle of the Bowie knife he’d had to pull it out by degrees, stopping every time his eyesight started to darken, he clutched a hand over his dark wound and staggered over to his would-be murderer’s collapsed body, he raked numb broken fingers over pockets, searching until he found what he was looking for: the small black burner phone that the man had taken from him when he’d first gotten here.
Phone cradled in broken hands he slumped to the porch, mostly laying on the stoop, he didn’t have long now, every movement was white hot and unsteady, to say that he hurt would be an understatement, but he still had a job to do, he was a messenger after all.
He carefully dialed the number, pushing the buttons almost make him pass out, he kept whiting out with pain as the broken bones in his hands shifted, he cried out as he did it, not allowing himself the mercy of stopping now.
Finally, after long agony filled minutes he pushed send, thank god for the universal cell towers! thank god for jamming software! the phone rang, he laid his head down on the stoop, fighting to keep his eyes open.
It rang again, a droning buzz in his ringing ears.
Please.
It buzzed.
Please pick it up! God, he’s so tired.
It rang again, his heart sunk into his stomach, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to dial another time, he was already more out of it than he should be, this was it.
It rang once more, he figured he’s have to leave the message on the voice mail, he knew that wasn’t allowed, too many people died that way, but then again, he wouldn’t be around for the higher-ups to yell at him.
“Hello?”
God bless her.
“Nez,” he rasped, surprised to feel a lump of tears forming in his throat, he figured hearing a friendly voice after so much was making him sort of sentimental.
“Shit! What happened to you? We’ve been so worried!”
The messenger ignored her, he didn’t have enough energy to explain, “Nez, four-ten Walnut, lots of kids there, you’ve still got some time, bring Ralphie, the combo is 6899437, got it?”
When Nez speaks again she’s quiet, it’s almost intimate like she’s whispering in his ear, “Where are you?” There is horror in her voice sure, but also hope, Nez hasn’t grasped yet that hope can kill you.
“Last one Nez, I’m going dark,” he croaked, his eyes slipping shut, he focused on the voice at the other end of the line.
“Oh Fuck, We’ll track you! We’re coming! Just don’t hang up! Please! Don’t hang up!”
The messenger assumes Nes says more but he can’t decipher it, message delivered he sinks below into the dark.
