[OOC: Finally got the chance to write this! Written with either a scared or defiant whumpee in mind, given the inciting event. Got a bit carried away… consider the scene with the guard a prologue? - @painwithoutplot ]
CW: living weapon whump, dehumanisation, pseudo-military setting (both the military and the pseudo part lol, I gave up on authenticity 🙈)
I’m not sure what I expected from my unofficial demotion, but this definitely wasn’t it. They raised my clearance level, for a start. They had to, just to get me in here. Now, instead of packing me off to some storage room to clean guns or take inventory, the guard who fetched me is leading me down a stairwell, into a stark, unfurnished corridor. To our left, there are small rooms and amenities. To our right, a heavy metal door. Everything down here looks reinforced.
I’m getting really curious about this ‘weapons duty’.
“You know what weaponry we work with at this testing facility, yes?”
“Yes, sir.” From the rumours, it’s all cyborg tech and viruses and jokes about Jurassic Park. “Biological, sir?”
“Organic. In here,” and the guard indicates the reinforced steel door, “is the storage facility for Unit 17-B. It’s valuable - very valuable. Heaven knows that’s why we keep it around. It’s also very dangerous.” His eyes meet mine, dead serious. “Sent the last guy in your position straight to the E.R.. Understand me, soldier?”
I suppress a faint flutter of nerves; they wouldn’t dare assign me anything too risky, even while I was in disgrace. Much as it shouldn’t, having family in high places does grant me certain protection. “Yes, sir.”
“So no funny business, alright? Get in, keep your distance, do your job, and get out.”
Don’t you have safety measures for your experimental weapons? “Yes, sir.”
The guard leads me into one of the small rooms, which looks to be a bare-bones canteen. He raps his knuckles on one of the head-height metal cupboards. “Food.” He gestures to the tap. “Water. Code for this-” motioning to the cupboard’s combination lock, “is 7391, and there’s bottles under the sink. Ration bar and a bottle of water twice a day, pending further orders. Simple enough, soldier?”
My brain short-circuits for a moment. Organic- No, they wouldn’t.
“Sir, what must I… do with them?”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know, oh, yes, they would.
He gives me a look that’s thoroughly unimpressed, but not surprised. “Give them to the unit in that cell.”
“Yes, sir,” I say, a little belatedly. Stunned.
No one said anything about - they said I’d be working on a weapon, not a test subject, or an attack dog, not anything that sounded alive.
“Sign off here when your duties are done. Now…” he turns away from the timesheet. Taps in the code for a larger cupboard; I don’t catch it. Sets a standard medkit down heavily on the table. “If 17-B’s already been in for correction, after what it did to your predecessor, you’re going to need this. Your job is to get it cleaned up and back in working order, understand? We’re not asking you to play Florence Nightingale here - frankly, after-” He cut off his voice as soon as it rose, and drew a deep, deliberate breath. “But if the unit gets infected under your watch, on your head be it. You’ve passed basic first aid, I take it?”
“Yes, sir, I have, sir.” That distracts me momentarily from the cold feeling in my gut. Of course I have; it’s mandatory. I even remember most of it (it’s not my fault I haven’t had much chance to practice in the field!). Then I think about practicing on an… an animal, an abused animal, or whatever they’ve got in there, and wonder if most will be sufficient.
“You’ve got the keys? Access card?”
I hold them both up. “Yes, sir.”
“Right, then you’re set. Write a condition and behavior report for its handlers at the end of the day; I’ll transfer you the template. Keep it brief, they’re busy personnel. If the unit looks like it’s dying of anything you can’t fix, that’s where you report it.”
The guard hesitates. Glances down. Looks back up at me. Slowly, he unhooks something from his belt and places it on the table between us: a worn cylinder ending in a wicked metal prong.
“Look-” and he seems almost bashful, now. "Officially, they didn't mention... equipment, in your briefing. So, maybe there's no need to mention this."
“I just... seeing what happened to Carter, I couldn't send you in empty-handed. Good luck, soldier. I’ll be back here in an hour. Just leave it in this room.” He makes his way past me, leaving the cattle prod on the table, and just like that, he’s gone.
I take a moment to regain my bearings. This is… weird, this is all fucking weird. He was so clinical. Belatedly, it hits me that he hasn’t even mentioned what kind of animal (or bio-plague, or mutant monster, or… oh, who am I kidding? It has to be an animal) I’m supposed to be tending. I’m not looking forward to fending off some cornered mutant tiger, or whatever equivalent the labs have cooked up, with little more than a pointy stick; truth be told, I’m not exactly enthusiastic about hurting some scared creature, either. Hopefully I won’t have to.
I gather up what the ‘unit’ apparently needs: the medkit, a bottle of water, a ration bar (that looks like a standard human one; it’s a bit disconcerting). When my eyes fall on the cattle prod, I wish I could say that I hesitate, but the guard gave it to me - went behind our superiors’ backs (his? mine?) to give it to me - for a reason. He looked so worried. There’s a well-worn silicon button set into the handle, reassuring and disquieting all in one.
Its tie goes around my wrist, and I set to work unlocking the corridor, which turns out to be lined with more heavily reinforced metal doors. Six, but only one is occupied. I square my shoulders - come on, Leigh! - and turn my key in the lock.
Slowly, the door swings open, and what I see inside makes my blood run cold.
I've lost track of how long I've been here. Ever since I attacked the last person who was meant to care for me they've been... stricter. Harsher. Crueller. And perhaps I deserved it, for what I'd done. Perhaps.
I know better, after all. That's what they told me.
My entire body hurt, bruises exposed in the cold room and hands still covered with dry blood from the last person. A muzzle sits heavily over my mouth, countless buckles keeping it locked in place, a metal bit shoved against my tongue and scraping against my teeth. It tastes like blood. And they have not bothered giving my shirt back. So I am left to resort to curl up in the corner, hands tucked into my armpits for some attempt at warmth.
I stiffen as the door opens, and I turn around to see someone new entering the place of my solitude. My hands would curl into fists if they weren't already trapped in leather, mitten-like contraptions, reducing my hands into nothing more than paws. And my heavy restraints ensure that I remain attached to the wall.
So I do the only thing I can do, chained up like the attack animal they see me as.
