Jul 31
what if a boy was kind of a girl and also really really awesome
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seen from Indonesia
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seen from Belarus
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seen from Iraq
seen from Malta
what if a boy was kind of a girl and also really really awesome
the teammmm
espada masterlist
Espa (they/she/it)'s life as a weapon was mostly filled with pain, obedience and blood—some of it its own—, until it met a kind, generous stranger. The namesake of Espada means "sword", but, unfortunately for the compliant, loyal life they've built for themself through all these rough years, they can't quite bring themself to remain as only that.
(note: please block '#espada spoilers' if you aren't caught up on arc 1 yet!)
General cws: Human trafficking, child whump, compliant whumpee, living weapon whumpee, multiple whumpees, torture.
-> Espada is now on Ao3!
-> Drabbles Masterlist
ARC I:
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
(Bonus) 11.5
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17.1
Chapter 17.2
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
ARC II:
Chapter 23
(coming)
--
-> AU Masterlist
-> Art Masterlist (+ picrews and fanart!)
-> Other writing: Liar | Dog | Sniper | Escravos de Jó | Cold | Interrogated | Fingers in the wound | Forced to hurt | Touch aversion | Disposal | Sixteen | Natural | [And more!]
-> Fanfic (!!!): Out of This World by @whumpshaped
-> Misc: #espada wip tag | #espada asks | #espada art | #meta rambles tag | #espa oc tag
———
Taglist: @otter-chaos-violence @oros-ash3s @inhurtandincomfort @swisscheesethethird @warmfuzz-ies @whumpawaydarling @catnykit @melpomenelamusa @whump-until-wretched @sirnef-fenris @stars-hide-our-fires @mxrr0rball @supasos0 @aromanticsky @violets-whumperflies @painwithoutplot @whumpshaped
sabre but make him baby
"escravos de jó"
What's this? 👀 A little backstory? Aka Sami had an idea for a drabble and got too excited. Relevant background information: Espa and the others are around ten to eleven in here (six years before the main story).
Espada Masterlist
———
CWs: Child whumpee (as stated above), multiple whumpees, whumperee, living weapon whumpees, referenced past torture, minor character deaths, guns and violence, brief vomit, slight gore, starvation (ish).
Far in the distance, poking out from between the large branches of trees, the stars glimmered.
White, dainty like pale drops of powder, scattered along the endless, infinite dark that reached out for miles and miles in every direction over them. The only source of light besides the faint moon. It almost thought it saw one of them blink at it. But no. Every single star was still. So very still. The blue a distant memory from here, what replaced it now stretching out towards eternity, hiding everything in its shadow. Nothing else was to be seen. Even the clouds looked heavier. As if they were looming. Waiting. It made it tense up against itself.
The night sky was too scary out here.
Espa wasn’t used to outside missions. At least not like this. Out in the forest. It half expected the woods to be inviting, verdant and full of life. Unlike in its imagination, all that filled everything around it was silence. Sparsely broken by obnoxious steps. And the low breathing of two people. It all sounded wrong, here. It didn’t like it. It didn’t seem like there was a single soul in the place. It couldn’t say for sure if there had ever been.
But the uncertainty of what it was sent here to do might have scared it the most. It was mostly used to be assigned simple targets to just finish off or hurt some more. Safely. It wasn’t with its usual handler, either. Mr. Cláudio was busy with another operation. It’d been issued to Mr. X instead.
It didn’t know his actual name. It’d only heard some of the older siblings calling him that. The nickname was always accompanied by a bitter pinch of detestation.
They were deep into the forest, now. Far away from the vehicle that got them here from the base. Before the destination—that clearing—it wasn’t even that long of a walk, and Espa knew its nerves were the only ones to blame. When they did get there, however, the abundant moonlight in the area almost knocked its breath away.
It looked like it was straight out of a fairy tale.
The handler suddenly grabbed its arm. It bit back a yelp, yanking its eyes out of the view. It was pulled into a little bunker hidden in between bushes, but it didn’t need to be manhandled. Espa felt a little offended at the roughness. It knew how to be obedient.
Mr. X pulled a little card from somewhere in his clothes to open its door, and led them both into darkness.
Espa wasn’t scared of the dark. With the circumstances, it was glad to not be. In front of them, a pitch blanket obscured everything that could otherwise be seen, so unlike the mysterious wilderness behind their backs. No; it felt somehow safer, in here, in between the concrete walls. This was an environment it was used to.
“Follow,” he said. Just as soon as Mr. X gave the order—which was already unecessary—he pushed them forward again. Espada was starting to find this bothersome. It was trained well. Did he not know that? It could be good. For a Crane. Its handler liked to say it wasn’t too far from being a Vulture, actually. But it did not tell him that. It could tell it’d just be slapped for speaking out of turn.
The weapon and the handler kept walking lower after the bunker closed up by itself behind them, and he’d lit up a small lantern from a belt somewhere along the way. Espa didn’t need it. It had a good vision for the dark, and just followed right behind him. In not long, a well-known pungent smell invaded its nostrils, and it almost froze up.
Blood.
It wasn’t like it was unfamiliar—Espa knew it very well. Enough to recognize it from miles away. It knew better than to halt without being told to (and Mr. X would just push it again, no doubt), but it made it nervous. It forced itself to keep it at bay.
A slap came, regardless.
Espa bit back a wince, dazed by the pain. It looked up.
“Stop with the shaking,” Mr. X chastised. Espa felt its cheeks warm up. It had nothing to do with the hit.
It hadn’t noticed.
“I’m sorry. Yes, sir.”
He didn’t mind the apology. Just kept walking. Espa decided to forget about the scent. If it was meant for it to care, it’d be told to do so in the given moment. It was hardly meant to be actually important. These bunkers always stenched of it, somehow.
Mr. X walked them down the rest of the way, turning a few corners, and it got progressively darker the further they got. Espa barely catched a glimpse of other corridors as they did. The shadows just turned heavier and heavier. This one looked like a maze. At some point, he turned off his lamp, and Espa could only tell how wide was the room they’d entered in because of the echo of their steps. It made it feel a little self-conscious. It wished they were more silent.
A switch clicked, lights flickering on. Bright, white and harsh. Espa recoiled, against itself. It could barely note how the room was completely empty—bloodstains on the floor, old and faint already, no windows and a few holes on the not-that-tall ceiling it recognized as ventilation—before Mr. X shoved them forward. Again. Espa knew better than to resist and just let itself be pushed, but it was starting to be genuinely annoying. It decided it did not, in fact, like Mr. X.
“Stay,” he ordered. Blunt and dry. Espada, however, did not need any further instructions.
“Yes, sir,” was all it said. As it should. The handler looked around, a hand on his hip, before turning on his heel and walking back.
Espa’s stomach dropped, but it didn’t let it on. It chewed on its lip.
Was it being punished?
What for? It wanted to know. Espa didn’t like solitary confinement. No—not liking was an understatement. It was humiliating, how little it could handle it. How long would it be kept in here? It did not have the audacity to ask, but Espa was sure that, if Mr. X turned behind, it’d be kicked for having started to tremble.
(Though a hit might actually still be preferrable. It was that or being left alone.)
To its relief, he stopped to look back at it, then, as if having a second thought. Before disappearing for good into the corridor that led them here, he laid a hand on the wall and stared into its eyes.
It struggled to keep any frown off its face.
“There’s more of you coming,” he informed. Espa immediately felt its body be washed down by relief. “Some targets will be joining you later,” the handler tapped a finger against the wall, “await further instructions. This is an executioning operation. You better not disappoint.”
Executioning? Oh. That was also a relief. Espa didn’t have experience in much else. It wondered if the targets would struggle. Restrained, perhaps? Or it might be combat practice. It wouldn’t complain.
Await further instructions.
“Yes, sir,” the weapon answered, but Mr. X was already walking out. Regardless if he had or not, he acted like he didn’t hear it.
Espa watched as the handler left them in between the four walls, under a labyrinthic maze with nothing but darkness stretching in every direction beyond the square of illumination, dozens of meters under the ground. Not for punishment. For a mission.
Its blood pumped hard on its ears, but it didn’t pay it mind.
Await further instructions.
There’s more of you coming.
The weapon laid its back against the wall most far away from the entry. The room’s lighting wasn’t actually that strong once the contrast against the pitch darkness faded away. It was almost dim, if compared to the nursery up at the base. Almost pleasant. But still bright. It felt embarrassingly grateful about it. Solitary was always worse, somehow, when it was dark.
It sat, diligent, eyes to the door. It didn’t want to be surprised when the others came.
Turns out, it ended up being a long while before anyone did. Espada had already grown nervous. This wasn’t solitary, Mr. X had said so, but it didn’t actually feel any different from that. It had brought its knees up to its chest at some moment.
It wasn’t that Espa minded the underground itself.
It would just rather not be alone in it.
At some point, its breathing had picked up, and it tried to force it to even back with the breathing exercises it’d learned. Its inability to do it drove frustration into its mind. It tasted blood. Lip ripped. Again. It was happening more frequently lately. The space was eerily silent, the only sound in its ears that of its own heartbeat—and, too loud, the sound of its breathing too. Which was pitifully trying to stay composed. It was failing.
The sensation was so familiar it was agonizing.
Nothing moved, including Espa, who stayed just as still as the stones over its head. Distantly, it realized the most smart choice would be to... move around a bit, do some exercise, because it’d give it something to do and it’d be less pathetic than being like this, but at some point, it lost the will to move. Espa would rather stay curled up like this. Which was painfully embarrassing, but it couldn’t talk itself out of it.
It couldn’t tell the time, either. In that, it could have been hours—maybe an entire day—or mere minutes after (though Espa did not want to believe it’d been that briefly, or else its lack of composure and resilience would be so shameful it’d want to die), when at some point, its ears finally picked up something that wasn’t the wind blowing from the ventilation. At first it thought it was imagined. But then they got closer, and Espa almost sobbed in relief. It bit down to let the pain drag it to alertness, breathing forcefully even to force back the trembling.
They were steps.
Another weapon. Espa had seen them before, though not very often. They didn’t greet one another; they were backed by another handler.
Espa knew that one. Ms. Anne, if it recalled? She was young, and always had a scowl on her face. It was a bit scary. Thankfully, she soon left, leaving the two weapons alone.
The room returned to silence. It wasn’t nearly as dense as before.
“What’s your name?” The other weapon asked after a while, still standing where they’d been left. Espa looked up at them. At him. White skin, hair as dark as its. Straighter. A fatter body. Tall. Tiny eyes. Baby face. A few moles on his face.
“Espada,” it answered. “What’s yours?”
“Sabre,” he said. He seemed to want to add something else, but decided against it, gracelessly throwing himself on the same corner it was sitting in.
Espa just nodded. It vaguely recalled seeing someone wield something with that name, once.
Not that long after—or, time just passed by faster when it wasn’t just Espa and the overwhelming nothing—someone else entered. Then another weapon, then another. Uzi, Rífe, Lança. It recognized some of them. Probably from the same sector. After a while, Sabre got up and started to stretch.
“Will you join me?” He asked, after touching his feet with the tips of his fingers. “We could kill time. And not be stiff when the assignments come.”
He had a point. Espa wasn’t the first to get up, a bit reluctant, but it did end up being refreshing. It lasted little more than fifteen minutes but every now and then, they’d stretch some more. They quickly had the other two that came after to join them. Aside from that, the room was still mostly silent. The presences were blissfully comforting.
Uzi had started humming a song at some point, sitting with her back against the wall. It rang a bell, but it did not know where it was from.
She stopped when they all heard steps. Heavier, this time. Just one set.
A handler.
It did not recognize her.
She carried a bag. Filled with rifles. Espa allowed itself to relax a little at the realization. It feared they’d have to take out the assignments barehanded. It wasn’t really good at that.
“Is everyone here?” She asked. Espa looked round. The others did the same. It didn’t know how many of them there were supposed to be. “N3-1618. And N3-6A21. Here?” She called. Sabre and one of the others confirmed their presence. The handler recited their identification from memory alone, looking mildly bored. She looked around. “N3-3108,” she continued.
It knew that number.
“Here, ma’am,” Espa said.
The handler nodded. She called for the rest of them, verifying—precisely seven weapons. Only one was N2. It had never been to that sector.
“Your mission is as following,” she threw the bag in the middle of the room. Lança flinched at the thud. The handler sent him a half-glare at that. “Thirty men and women are incoming through this hall, one at once,” she pointed behind herself. “Kill them. Someone will come to inform you when you’re done. There’s extra ammo and three canteens in there,” she raised her chin at the sack, “no preference on how it’s done. Ration the water, don’t be stupid. Check their vitals.” Her voice assumed a more rigid tone. “You don’t want to know what will happen if I find out one was left alive.”
Espa bit down to repress a chill.
“Yes, ma’am,” they answered, in unison. The handler took a good look at each of their faces, before turning and walking away.
“Don’t slack off,” she warned. “They won’t be waiting for you to get up off the floor.”
Then was gone.
Rífe was the first to walk towards the bag of weapons, as all of them got up from their spots. Sabre had been smart. Having stayed still would have gotten them sore. She got a light gun from the sack, weighing it on her hands and checking the ammunition.
“Here,” Espa called. Rífe threw the sack at it, who caught it despite her half-missing the direction. It was heavy. Espa didn’t take long to choose a simple automatic. It threw it to Uzi, who’d lifted her arm next.
Everybody got themselves a weapon. It followed Sabre’s previous idea and warmed up a little more. He shot it a glance, surprised, but quickly joined. Don’t slack off, she’d said.
It wouldn’t.
In not long—they’d been positioned by the sides of the entry, waiting—the first person entered. He came running.
By the look on his face, he was dazed. Not drugged, and alert. But he was scared; it could see his chest heaving. Middle-aged. Unkept beard. Not injured at all.
Espa was the first to shoot him. It aimed for the chest. He jerked, too slow to dodge the bullet, but didn’t fall dead. Ah. Shit. Someone else lunged towards him, pulling on his hair to trap him in a headlock. The man gasped. He had to bend down backwards. They were much shorter than him.
“Heart!” They called. Sabre was faster this time.
His aim was perfect. The scream died on his throat, and the target fell dead.
The weapon let him go, straining with the effort. They kicked the corpse, checking if he’d move.
“Dead,” they confirmed, giving Sabre a thumbs up. He grinned.
The next one was taken by Rífe. She got something else from the sack, and hit the target in the back of the head with it before they could stop her. She was fast. The rest of them prepared to shoot as soon as she moved out of the way after the first hit, but before anyone could, she pulled their head up and crushed their throat against the gun. Oh. The heavy weapon had been a smart idea.
After the third one, they’d had to start getting the corpses out of the way into the back of the room. No one would manage to enter otherwise.
It repressed a sigh. These would start to stink if it took long. Everybody else seemed to have the same thought.
“Where do you think they’re coming from?” Lança. He peeked out into the hall. There seemed to be other rooms in the way. The illumination coming from the one they were in was not enough to tell much apart from that. “They’re not escorted, but they can’t just be coming willingly the same direction we did,” he mused. “It’s a long way down, right? They would run.”
Sabre shrugged. Espa thought it over. He was right. A mystery.
At some point, they’d started using the targets to practice. It was soon learned that Sabre had the best aim out of the seven weapons, so he was guarded in the back of the room ready to take them out if there was danger. Espa had started it, wanting to see if it could kill them like Rífe had done. It quickly turned into a game.
“Hit them here first if you can’t do that,” she advised after a while, pointing to her jaw. “It throws off their balance. Then, you can deal the blow.” She demonstrated it, lightly, with Sabre. He gasped, glaring at her after falling to the floor. Espa hid a laugh.
He poked his tongue out at it.
Turns out, Rífe’s advice was pretty valuable. Everyone wanted a try at it.
They were at the fifteenth body.
“I wish I could shoot like that,” someone sighed at some point, after another certain bullet to the head prevented what could’ve been an accident. Sabre brushed his eyes. He was probably getting eye tired by now.
“We could train that, too,” Uzi suggested. “Like, take turns holding them still. Then someone shoots.” The sniper was the most enthusiastic about the idea. Espa could only imagine he was already done for with staying sitting at the same spot.
After a brief convo, Rífe was the first.
She was very bad at it.
“Come on,” Lança complained, breath hitching with the effort to hold a woman from fighting back. Espa was helping. Luckily, she was thin and short. But terribly energetic. It didn’t say anything, but it also wished she’d be a little faster. Third shot, already. It’d almost hit it.
“I’m trying,” she retorted. Sabre rolled his eyes, getting up from the dead pile he’d sat on, and got behind her, adjusting her posture.
“Like this,” he said. She tried following his instructions, narrowing her eyes. Sabre whispered something else in her ear, helping her to get the grip on the gun, but it still took her four more tries to actually kill her.
Espa fell to the ground when she did, taking a breath to compose itself. It was starting to get tired.
Sixteen bodies in the room.
The smell was weak. Barely noticeable, really. The thing that was really starting to bother was the blood. It was very used to it, all of them were—but not in this amount. It was starting to make it dizzy. It wasn’t the only one.
Espa’s second turn with the killing shot was certain, and it allowed itself to feel a little proud. Lança and a few others had skipped their turns. After a while, everybody else gave up on it too.
The thirst was starting to get annoying.
They’d avoided the water, afraid to waste it all in the first hours without knowing how much it was gonna last, but it became undeniable how much they would need it after a while. A few sips were taken and too soon, the first canteen was completely emptied. Guilt dropped in its stomach. If it wasn’t so greedy, maybe it’d last more. Lança was weirdly insistent on getting everyone to get a little too much, though. When Rífe asked, he stayed silent for a bit and said it was important.
They’d fail if they neglected thirst, he reminded. Their performance would fall dead if they didn’t drink enough. It was enough to convince everybody.
They managed to get a formation functioning for the last eleven targets. Espa pushed back the fatigue. Just a few more. Its senses were overwhelmed by the scent of metal, which was impossible to run away from at that point—thank god the chamber was this large. All the bodies might not have fit otherwise—and it didn’t really help. They all started getting slower, even taking controlled doses of water to keep running.
And it was, genuinely, starting to be boring.
Sabre shot the man in the leg as soon as he entered, not bothering with a perfect shot. That was not his role at the moment. The target fell over his feet, and from then, Espa got over him and snapped his neck. It was easier than at the start. They’d started using the discarded corpses to kill time and prevent falling asleep.
They switched—now, guarding the door were Uzi and Rífe—and Espa sat in the middle of the room. Not in the back; there wasn’t a free seat left that wasn’t deadly nauseating. It took a spot that wouldn’t obstruct Uzi’s aim, either, taking in the saturated scent of copper. It was all that there was to take. It panted. Espa gulped down to give its throat some lube.
The guns fired, ringing on its ears. It wondered for how long they’d been down there.
“Your turn,” Sabre snapped his fingers on its face. Espa flinched. He recoiled. “Sorry. We don’t know when they’ll come.”
That was true. It got up from the floor, suppressing a groan. The targets got in at uneven intervals for some reason. They didn’t know when they’d come.
It was really bothersome.
Someone threw the water at it, seeing it wobble. They had been keeping it inside the sack. It was limited. Espa gratefully took a few sips of the almost emptied second bottle. It’d turned warm.
Overall, they almost missed a handful of marks. It was hard to be completely alert at all times, and they’d slacked off in a few moments. It was painfully tiring to keep the guard up for the entire duration of the assignment, even taking turns at that, too. They’d been too slow at times. A woman had managed to almost choke one of them before Rífe put her down with her heavy gun. Another managed to steal one of theirs—all the targets came in unarmed—and grazed at Espa’s arm with a poorly-aimed shot. It’d hissed.
Not that serious—it hadn’t actually caught on it—but it hurt.
Simple bandages. Lança proved to be good at it. Wasted water for cleaning. A sharp sting to worsen its headache. It was nauseous.
It tried not to think about it.
Two targets left. Someone in the corner started acting restless. Espa couldn’t judge. It felt the same, though it didn’t externalize it. They were waiting for the next one to come in, but it was taking painfully long.
Sabre audibly sighed.
“They smell,” he said. Nobody asked what he was talking about. It’d tuned the stench out at some point, but it only added up with every corpse.
It was a bad smell. Though they didn’t even smell like actual corpses yet. The sweat and boredom also didn’t make it much better. Uzi tried minimizing the amount of blood on a kill, attempting to choke the woman, but with little success. She quickly quit, shooting her through the brain instead. Not the smartest choice. They all cringed when gore spilled out of her head, knowing what it’d soon mean. She was the worst-smelling one in the back. Espa had gone up and tried to wrap her head in—it didn’t even know. Fabric?—something to cover it at some point.
Scrambling for a decent piece of cloth in the wear of the targets they’d put down, it found something else.
“Oh.”
“Hm?” Sabre looked in its direction.
The weapon showed him the utility belt.
It’d barely noticed whose it was. It just stood out to attention. It didn’t remember any of the targets having many belongings on them (it had definitely slacked off, then), so this was a surprise. It could see some others had turned to look at it too, though Rífe still watched the door, attentive. She was tired, too. The belt had about a dozen little lidded cups attached, little pots colored light gray. They felt like plastic.
“I wonder what’s in them,” it pondered, forgetting about the bits of stinky brain it’d gotten up to cover. It stepped down the body and set foot back on the ground, boots making a firm sound against it.
“Should we open those?” Sabre got to his feet, looking down at the cups.
Espa frowned. It took out a pot from the strap, shoving the belt on the other weapon’s hands. He took it without question. It uncapped it. The thing opened without resistance.
Pills.
“What are those for?” He peeked inside. There couldn’t be more than eight of them. Small, round and white. No smell whatsoever. Or—if they had one, it was drowned by the overwhelming stench in the room at that point. They were plain.
“I have no idea,” it responded. After hesitating for a second, it emptied its contents on the floor. Uzi watched them, a bit alarmed by the noise.
“Won’t this get us in trouble?”
It might. Who knew if the handlers wanted the pills and had just forgotten to pick them or what. They didn’t even know where the assignments were coming from or what they were for. “I’ll take the blame,” it reassured her. “What is in the others?” Sabre, just as it, had the curiosity taking the best out of him. He uncapped another, shrugging. Disappointed.
“More pills.”
Leaving Uzi watching the door with a gun in hand, all the weapons assembled around the belt to empty the contents of the little cups by the floor. By the sixth, it was already clear they were all the same. Except for maybe the amount. Some cups had a dozen. Some, about five. It counted up to twenty inside one. They decided to stop without getting through them all. Seemed quite pointless. They didn’t have the energy to spare.
Rífe picked up one of the empty cups. They’d all sat by the floor at some point. The silence hummed in its ear, annoying. It ignored it.
“We could play with these,” she mumbled. Sabre frowned, but Lança spoke first.
“We won’t see when the next one comes if we waste time with play,” he pointed out.
She glared at him.
“You can stay by the door with Uzi, then.”
He sighed.
“What kind of game?” Sabre asked. “You want to solve puzzles or what?”
She paid him no mind, arranging the cups on a circle instead, bottoms facing up.
“Escravos de Jó,” she started to sing. Espa recognized the lyrics from somewhere. “Jogavam caxangá,” she continued, changing a cup and putting another in its place. “Tira,” she lifted it, “põe,” then put it back on the ground, “deixa ficar.”
“Guerreiros com guerreiros fazem zigue-zigue-zá,” Uzi completed from across the room. She looked over her shoulder to face them. “I know that one.” Rífe smiled. She held a cup out to Lança.
“So?” She was grinning. “Will we?”
It did end up being fun. She taught them the lyrics, and at Lança’s suggestion, took turns, this time to guard the door. The weapons sat in a circle, trading the cups between them and lifting them and putting them down, following to the music. Whenever someone got out of beat or missed, Rífe booed and shoved them out of the circle. It was surprisingly entertaining. They all joined with it, at some point. Trying to focus in order not to lose the game kept its mind alert.
The rhyme was the only sound in the room. It echoed on the walls, soft with their voices.
Slaves of Jo.
Played just as crabs.
Take it.
Put it.
Let it be there.
Its voice broke at a tune. Sabre giggled. Someone passed it down another cup, and it passed it down to the next, continuing the cycle. The stench of blood didn’t relent. The weapon at the door mindlessly hummed along after having lost a round, aim adjusted forward.
Warriors among warriors,
they make a zig, zig, zig, zam.
More hours must’ve gone by. The twenty-ninth target arrived during Espa’s shift—its ego was sore from being kicked, but the mission was more important. It used what it’d learned to shoot him by the leg before he could disturb the game.
It was careful not to spill his brains this time.
Escravos de Jó, they sang.
Jogavam caxangá. Someone felt sick. They threw up near the corpses. It didn’t help the smell. Nobody commented on it, trying not to retch as well. Lança begrudgingly gave them extra water. Hydration, he’d said. Espa got it. It had forgotten that from the lessons on getting sick. He had a good memory.
Tira.
Põe.
A noise. It startled all of them, tired and on edge as they were. It ended up being nothing. Sabre had just yawned at the door. He apologized, fixing his aim forward.
Deixa ficar.
It was getting harder to stay awake, but they needed to wait for the last target. Rífe’s turn at the door. She was too slow to get up, and Espa wondered if it’d be a good idea to leave her there on her own. Her aim was pitiful. She might be too tired to just hit them bluntly like she was doing earlier.
It sat down beside her.
She didn’t say anything. Just nodded, surprised and thankful.
Guerreiros com guerreiros,
fazem zigue,
zigue, zá.
The last mark—when he finally arrived—took collective effort. It rendered the playing dead. Someone definitely got hurt, though they were too tired to care at that point.
A weapon hissed in pain. The man panted, with a bloody might-be concussion at the side of his head. He cradled it, pointing an empty rifle to them. His eyes were wild.
He pressed on the useless trigger. Espa flinched against itself.
“Let me go!” He cried, voice hoarse. His gaze darted around the weapons, who had taken to circling him. Like vultures, it thought, blushing. It wasn’t actually a Vulture yet. “Tell me!” He was incoherent, clearly exhausted. It had no idea what from. He wasn’t injured before entering the chamber. “Tell me wh—where the way out is!” His voice broke.
Lança and Uzi traded a glance. Espada got what they were thinking.
Way out.
“Is that what they told you?” Sabre asked. It had no idea where he got the breath from. It was giving it all to remain straight and not show weakness to the target. Though it seemed to work. He was terrified, trembling at their smallest movement. “That if you came down here there was a way out?” He tilted his head, seeming genuinely curious. Lança’s eyes seemed to dawn with understanding. That’d explain some things.
By the way the target’s breath hitched, he seemed to have gotten it right.
“N-no, it—it—” his chest heaved. He ran a hand through his already messy, coily hair. Espa kept its aim trained on him. If he just stopped moving, it’d be able to shoot. “Fuck.” Sabre hid a flinch at the bad word. “Fuck!” He repeated. “It isn’t—I just wanted to—they swore!” He was completely irrational now. It distantly wondered if he couldn’t just go and die on his own. Its arms were sore. “They swore that they’d let me go if—”
He stopped moving. For a second too long. Uzi was the one to notice it first, dealing a shot to his forearm. Far too shaky. She tsked. If it were Sabre, he’d already be dead. But he was too slow to do it.
The man screamed—the sound, even as restrained, was so loud compared to the unrelenting silence they’d gotten used to that it made them all tense up—and scrambled back, seeming to sense his end was nearing. He shot another desperate glance round them and let his stolen gun drop to the ground, shoving a weapon out of the way and making a beeline for the door. He seemed to be aiming towards another corridor. The way he’d come from? It never knew the layout of these underground bunkers.
Regardless, that had been his last mistake.
Sabre grabbed something from the ground, sending another bullet through his arm. The man recoiled with a gut-wrenching wail, but kept running. Fuck. Rífe was way too slow by now, or else this could have been done faster. Espa followed him out, Uzi jolting right behind it.
Someone threw a gun at it. It was too heavy, but it got it. Its vision doubled from the fatigue.
Another shot.
No scream. It’d missed.
Uzi, powered by adrenaline, caught up to him and pointed a gun till he stumbled backwards, not having made it too far away from the room. He fell over Espa. It held back a whine of pain, his weight aggravating the bullet graze it’d gotten a few hours ago. He was vulnerable now, belly up.
Sabre climbed up over them, sending a shot clean through his neck.
The sound echoed through the halls outside. They all panted, taken by the silence.
The thirtieth mark.
It took a long sigh of relief out of them. Espa fell limp on its belly under him, as good as dead. As if its strings had been cut.
Sabre laughed, pulling it from below the corpse.
The stench was awful, even from the other side of the entrance. They didn’t bother getting him to the back with the others. Espa almost felt the urge to vomit as well. It held it back. The floor was heavenly against its back, without the need to be on its feet.
“I hated this mission,” Lança muttered, exhausted. Sabre laughed at him, too, joining Espa on the floor. There was no joy behind it. They all felt the same.
They knew the complaints weren’t going to get out of this room.
The water was shared. For the small victory. Someone had the sense to leave a little, still. Nobody knew when the handler would come. Espa didn’t argue, despite the thirst. It was too drained for that.
In a corner, Rífe sat with her knees up to her chest and staring at the ceiling. More specifically, at the fans swinging on the ceiling. The breeze below it must be comforting.
It was a little too close to the bodies. Espa would rather not get near.
Someone slapped it before it could doze off.
“Stay awake,” Uzi said. It made it jolt away, breath hitched from the scare. After another dazed second, it actually woke up, rushing to brush its eyes and sit up. Damn it. “You’ll get in trouble.”
She was right.
“Sorry.” It strained to bring down its breathing to normal. It forced back a yawn. It wasn’t supposed to sleep before the handler arrived and dismissed them. It hoped they’d be here soon.
The silence that followed was unrelenting. Nobody moved a muscle.
Now, with no more tension holding them up, the hunger made itself painfully present, difficult to ignore. They did so, anyway. There was no other choice.
The weapons stayed in silence. No complaints were uttered.
Too long after, but so mercifully soon after the eternity they’d spent down there, it was there.
Steps.
The last thirty times they’d heard it, it brought the tension in the room up by a hundred—so thick you could almost touch it. This time, however, the sound reached its ears with nothing but sheer, pure, heavenly and long-awaited relief.
Lança was the first to get up. Clumsily. It was noticeably strained. Then, the weapon from sector N-2. Sabre followed, mindlessly offering out a hand for Espa to pick. It did, allowing him to take half its weight and rising to its feet.
When the handler finally entered, they were all standing at attention.
One of the perks of the position was that nobody could see how its hands were shaking. It’d tried to stop it. Sometimes it just couldn’t be helped.
She took a long look at the carnage in the back of the concrete room, pinching her nose. The handler kicked the last target, who’d been obstructing the way inside since he fell down. The stench was too strong, even for her.
“Status?” She requested.
“Thirty marks, ma’am.” Rífe. “Confirmed. A few injured. None dead,” she mumbled. The handler nodded, looking distressed. Almost as if eager to come out of the bunker already.
Then, the words it’d been dying to hear it’d been hours.
“You’re all dismissed.”
It was almost audible how they all hid their sighs of relief. Thankfully, she didn’t comment on it. The handler went before them, but none of the weapons waited very long before following her.
Uzi had shoved all of the guns back in the bag. Espa decided to carry it before someone forgot. It didn’t want to get the whip for something so small.
It was painfully heavy, but Rífe seemed to notice and helped it to take it. It looked up at her, a silent glance of gratitude.
When they got out of the underground, the outdoors’ wind was a blessing from heaven. Espa took a deep load of air, filling its lungs in fresh oxygen as if it hadn’t done so in ages. Its knees almost buckled from the bliss. It was cooler, here. It felt the dirt and gravel crushing under its boots, not nearly as bothered by the sound as it was before.
The sky was painted gold. The sun set down, lazy, after blessing a day they hadn’t gotten to see underground. Espa didn’t mind. The smell of the woods was intoxicating.
There was a van with another handler waiting for them under dusk. It recognized him.
“Mr. X,” it greeted as soon as it did, quick to get to its knees before him. He was especially particular about that.
It felt the way he eyed it, looking up at the other six as well, with what it hoped was not disapproval. It really wanted for nobody to get punished back at home.
“...Good job,” he praised, blunt. Almost begrudgingly, but praising, still. It almost looked up in surprise—it knew better. When the door of the vehicle opened, it got up, blinking back at the clarity that was starting to fade and at the dizziness of the movement. It’d be nice if the sun was rising instead. It liked sunrise.
The other handler ordered them all to get into the van, and so they did without question. She got in the passenger seat. Mr. X was driving.
The roar of the engine picked up to life, and the last door clicked shut. In a few minutes, they left the clearing. Espa looked behind, vision half blocked by the other weapons taking the seats.
Miles under the wheels of the van, thirty bodies rotted, and a handful of gray cups were scattered over the floor, empty.
The forest soon consumed everything it could see from the tinted windows.
Espa reported, presented to the infirmary, ate, took a bath and trained, and didn’t waste a second after being dismissed for good that day before falling on their bare bunker facefirst. It shuddered in the hard mattress, body welcoming the texture. It’d gotten three full bottles of water, fresh and from the fridge, a while ago. It was finally free from the thirst.
It could finally sleep.
Not like it was complaining or anything, though. A mission was a mission. It didn’t complain about missions.
In that, Espa was out from sheer exhaustion before it could notice it.
Its nightmares, that day, weren’t as bad.
They were coated with friendly voices of six other people, Sabre’s laughter and a chorus of a nursery rhyme being sung out of tune . The scent of blood followed it all, all-encompassing. It coated all air, as thick as death. Copper, heavy and dirty, more than enough to twist its stomach. Saturated air; so overwhelmingly hot. Too heavy. Carried with red. The atmosphere was a silence just as heavy—but for the soft, tired chorus, that sung still.
Slaves of Jo.
Played just as crabs.
Take it.
Put it.
Let it be there.
Warriors among warriors,
they make a zig,
zig, zig,
zam.
It was too deep into slumber to notice it, but the melody made its way past its lips. Espa turned in the bed.
The soft constant humming of the weak dormitory’s AC drowned it.
———
Espada Taglist (lmk if you'd like to be tagged on main chapters only!): @otter-chaos-violence @oros-ash3s @inhurtandincomfort @swisscheesethethird @warmfuzz-ies @whumpawaydarling @catnykit @melpomenelamusa
Here is a recording of a group playing escravos de jó if you're curious. (YT shorts.)
"disposal"
this is very short not even 1k long but enjoy :) everybody say thank you @aromanticsky for choosing this one
Espada Masterlist
———
CWs: Referenced massacre, exhaustion, living weapon whumpees, blood and the like, aftermath, some injuries
The silence stretched, world fading into the moment. It replaced the cacophony that’d just filled the room. Espa panted, falling on all fours. Their limbs were burning, head pounding—but they’d done it. They’d cleared their share of their targets. They’d defeated them, and, most importantly, they were alive.
It was the relief that did it, it thought, when its limbs all of a sudden couldn’t keep the weapon afloat anymore and it flopped face first on the bloody, gory floor. Its fingers twitched, trying to ward off the pain. It needed to get up and find him. To report. Someone had ripped out their comm at some point.
Still, Espa found itself unable to quite move. Its ragged breaths were the only sound in the ravaged house, as they stood, the only living thing inside. Red painted the windows, her skin. Shifting its hue and making it itchy. She’d fucked up, too. The targets had managed to make a phone call before falling. They probably only had an hour or two now, to get it together and go.
It was hard to think right now. Their brain was pudding. It thought, in a distant sort of way, that if they didn’t make out after coming this far, Mr. Juste would be so disappointed.
Their ears picked up movement. Espa’s limp, worn figure twitched again, exhausted adrenaline coursing back into its veins. It fought gravity to lean on an elbow. They weren’t fully sure if they were gonna be able to do it. The knife rested helpless in her grip, dead. It weakly closed the grip around it. The steps approached, loud and awkward from the corridor just left to the door, until they were so close it could hear the breathing, too. A peek of black, matted hair poked from the doorway. From the little kneel they’d managed to muster, half-assed and dirty, their system sagged in relief again.
A face stared them down, just as keyed-up and bruised as theirs was. His eyes obviously widened at the sight, a sigh leaving his lips as if the weight of the world had been dropped from his shoulders.
Sabre had found her first.
He grunted as he made his way across the room with what it could see was a bullet in the lower side and a twisted ankle, wincing away from the overhead light but not slowing his gait. Espa’s mind slowly, but surely settled, making them calm. Heavy. Useless. It felt the same weight drop, not realizing how afraid it’d been until it saw him.
He was alive.
“Status report?” The other weapon called as he crouched down, weakly, once he was within range for his voice to work. It swallowed. Allowed its eyes to fall shut for a full second longer than necessary.
“Disposal complete,” she choked out, to his clear relief. “But incoming.”
He eyed the room at that, just as blood-drenched as she was. Didn’t ask. Didn’t need to. He forced himself to his feet and held out a hand. “Can walk?”
It didn’t answer. Just lifted its arm and grabbed his. “Will have to.”
There was a snort as he pulled them up, who very deliberately did not lean on him nor on his faulty ankle. God. It saw stars, dizzy. How long had they been here, again? They hated mass-disposal operations. They were going to need a shower.
“You?” It asked back, voice just as ragged. Just as low. His nod was minimal. Conserving energy. It did not note how he kept clutching his wound.
“Been worse,” he nodded. Their turn to crack a little smile. It mustered up what little strength it had left to give him a playful punch in the shoulder. He winced, but huffed a breathless laugh. “You reckon we have how long?”
It cupped its forehead, sighing out. “An hour most. Comm’s gone.”
Instead of saying if his was working, Sabre just nodded again, sluggish. Espa eyed him warily. It wished they still had their canteens. It raised its hand again, this time to hold his arm. Light. He blinked up at her. It nodded to itself. They definitely needed that water.
“We should get going,” it mumbled. “I’ll help you. Once we’re home you can fall down.”
The smile he gave them was a little tired, but he leaned onto the support. It didn’t huff at the weight, as it adjusted itself to help carry a little of it once he allowed it. They didn’t fall, either, though it was barely. Espa breathed in.
They had a couple corridors to walk through, if they wanted out before backup arrived and they got caught.
———
espada taglist: @otter-chaos-violence @oros-ash3s @inhurtandincomfort @swisscheesethethird @warmfuzz-ies @whumpawaydarling @catnykit @melpomenelamusa @whump-until-wretched @sir-fenris @stars-hide-our-fires @mxrr0rball @supasos0 @aromanticsky @violets-whumperflies @painwithoutplot (lmk if you'd only like to be tagged in main story chapters!)
Espada Extras Masterlist also
febuwhump day 6: (ALT prompt 5) "auction"
This got out of control :) it is long. A little raw, since we're not giving it days of revising and marinating, but hey, I like it! Say hi Sabre I missed Sabre.
-> Espada Masterlist
[CWs: Child traficking, (future) pet whump, dehumanization, living weapon whumpee, multiple whumpees, Juste sucks, his friends suck also]
Mr. Juste leaned in and adjusted the tie around his neck. Sabre didn’t recoil. He should. This was extremely uncomfortable. He knew his handler knew that. He knew he didn't care. He knew he liked it that way.
“There,” he smiled, putting some distance to admire his work and backing up on his seat. “Don’t you look stunning?”
The weapon loosened the thing, getting some space to breathe. The handler’s lips irked up. He didn’t berate him nor try to fix it. Sabre sighed. “I don’t know why you even come here. There are servants back at home.”
“Servants ain’t pets, dear,” he retorted, taking out a hairband and tying up his loose locs behind his head. One fell out, but as always, Juste didn’t mind. He curled it around his finger and just tucked it behind his ear. The handler shrugged, continued, “But I’m not looking for any. We have to support our friends in big moments, don’t we?”
He could feel his eye twitch. ‘Big moments’. Sure. He still didn’t know why he had to come along.
Sabre sighed. He didn’t like these events.
“Oh,” Mr. Juste spoke up. Sabre didn’t uncross his arms, but he turned in his direction. He was glancing out of the window. “Our stop.”
How lovely. For him, all the city lights looked about the same, every street just as busy, every alley an identical mix of hidden and undesirable. He hadn’t ever come here. Juste must have, before. In a couple minutes, the driver stopped and the handler adjusted his lapel. Sabre groaned, shoving his door open.
“Thank you,” Juste smiled as he opened his side for him, allowing the handler to step out. Sabre slammed the thing with a sound that made the driver cringe from their seat, before adjusting their glasses and sending an unsure look at Mr. Juste. He just smiled and waved back at them. Another cringe. It didn’t take long for them to step on the clutch, the accelerator, then drive away. Juste put his hands on his pockets, watching them go. Sabre turned behind them instead to take a look at the building they were entering.
His turn to cringe. Of course.
The reception hall was large, and the house was, as the facade implied, an icky kind of modern. Glass panels, high ceiling. None of the business would be carried around here, though. There were only tables with that fancy party food in little portions, a delimited queue to allow everyone to enter. Well. It was mostly empty by now. He figured they were late. Sabre didn’t really pay attention to what his handler was doing with the guard at the entrance, what kind of letter or invite he’d shown them. The walls were disappointingly bare. He liked it better when it was those old-style, ornate places. Those were just boring.
The handler wrapped an arm around him. Sabre almost jumped.
“Mr. Juste,” he hissed. “You—”
“Now, now,” he interrupted him. “Won’t wander off on your own, will you? Management will kill me if someone thinks you’re up for sale and gets you before I can get there.”
His eye twitched again. “How responsible.”
He giggled. “I should put a leash on you, just to make sure,” he joked, leaning away. The fact he wasn’t serious didn’t make Sabre any more pleased. “C’mon. It’s downstairs.”
Of course it was downstairs. Everything was always downstairs.
Sabre ignored the thin crowd walking around the reception, chatting amongst themselves or, in less dressed-up attires, cleaning up the floors and serving drinks—were the guests killing off some time before it started?— instead landing his attention on the person that led him and his handler on the way. He found it a little strange there was no second guard following from behind or something, but maybe Juste was already too well-known around the circles of whoever was even hosting this for that. He felt a chill run through his spine.
The guard stopped them by the middle of the staircase, after having passed through what seemed like an unnecessary amount of floors. There was one door in front of them, and the way continued below for maybe several meters, but she had her hand on the doorknob just to the left. He wondered how many “downstairs” rooms there were in here. How many were just decoy, for the sake of confusion, and how many were actually used. For what.
Okay, maybe he should just cut the thinking short for today. Yeah, he was gonna do that.
When she opened the door, a slight bow to allow Mr. Juste in, the lights were so strong against the dimness of the staircase that Sabre winced away. His handler grabbed his arm, regardless, and he was pushed into the salon before he could actually see where he was.
It was a giant auditorium.
He sucked in a breath, taking it in. Surely there was no need for anywhere to be this big. Rows and rows of seats placed around a low platform, some sort of stage, and the lights above were so, so bright. Mr. Juste pushed him out of his awe again, leading him to one of the seats. He turned to send him a glare, but the handler’s eyes weren’t even actually on him. Sabre blinked. Juste’s gaze was set on the stage, no smile to be seen on his face. There was a dangerous glimmer in his eyes. The weapon couldn’t help but tense up.
Before Sabre could continue worrying, he peeled his attention from the center of the room to look around for something. When it seemed like he’d found it, Juste took him in sure, confident steps to a spot in the audience. He barely resisted, already used to it. The weapon only let out a sigh and let his arm be yanked around.
Juste didn’t even need an actual leash, like this.
There was chatter. Because of course there was. The grand hall was filled with people and their sounds, laughter coming from one side and energetic conversations from a few rows below. Some seemed just as excited. Some adjusted the collar of their fancy dress shirts, looking around with a nervous sweat. The chairs he was leaded towards were padded and fancy, a crimson color for the seats, and there were five of them freed in the spot. A man and a woman sat just beside these ones, waving and smiling at Juste, something about having guarded him a spot. The handler giggled, but Sabre could only feel his stomach sinking further. Fantastic. So they wouldn’t be alone. Just what he needed right now.
Juste sat down like a peacock with his chest stuffed, and he swore he could almost see the little feathers twitching from enthusiasm. The weapon knew better than to stay standing in this kind of place, so he resignedly went to take a seat just behind his handler. Their spot was high off the ground, way into the back, so at least he didn’t have to worry about anyone sneaking from behind. He didn’t, but he did anyway. It was why he’d been probably brought for.
Someone grabbed his arm before he could find a chair.
It was the woman. She had smooth, brown skin and long curls cascading in front of her blue dress. Her smile was wide. And it was feline. He couldn’t help it. He flinched.
“Why, don’t go running, boy,” she bared her teeth. “We don’t bite.”
He hadn’t been worried about that. Prior. The man sitting just beyond her leaned forward to take a peek at him. He looked amused. Sabre didn’t let his eye twitch again. Juste wasn’t even looking. His attention was back on the stage.
The weapon stomped back to their row, threw himself on a seat just between his handler and the lady. The other man—paler, slightly tanned from sun—watched him with curiosity. He prepared himself to be poked and prodded at, sinking into the chair. At least it was comfortable.
The couple—they looked like one, at least—resumed their chatting, and for a blissful few minutes, he was an appliance in the room and not a toy. He allowed himself to slightly relax, unfortunately unable to tune out their voices.
“You look stunning, Ananda,” his handler was saying to the woman across from him. He shouldn’t have sat in the middle. “The color suits you.”
She snorted. “Ernesto will think you’re trying to steal me from him,” she joked. Her partner made a protesting sound from her side. Juste laughed. It was the easy, loud sort of laugh that meant he was temporarily forgotten. In the clear. For now. Ananda pointed a finger at Juste’s attire. “I’d say you don’t look any short of lovely, either, but...” She smiled, turned her face at him instead. He locked his jaw. And here we go. “You outdid it. I think he’s looking cuter than you.”
He remained staring ahead. The stage had warmer light cast upon it, and the ones above them were slowly being dimmed. The platform was completely empty. He noticed that there were curtains circling it, too. He swallowed down some eeriness at how everything down here seemed to be decorated red.
“You’re so mean,” Juste teased her back. “Ern, do you think I look better than my weapon?”
The Ernesto one shook his head, shrugging with a faux air of nonchalance.
“You two look identical to me.”
Between Ananda’s burst of laughter and Juste’s dramatic sigh, Sabre fiddled with his tie. He wasn’t fully wrong. Juste’s suit was white, fitted, three-piece. The thing he’d chosen for him wasn’t much different aside from the color. Dark, no jacket for him, and he had a normal tie unlike Juste’s weird and long silk stripe. He ran his fingers over the sew lines on his gloves.
Then the lights went fully off at once.
Sabre’s body responded to the change in environment before his brain could properly catch up to it, but he forced himself to relax his back and fully lean into his seat again. Murmurs ran through the audience, a layer of silence slowly falling over them. Mr. Juste and his friends traded a couple last whispers, and then the platform was lit up again.
He pursed his lips. Clenched his fists.
There was someone standing on it, now.
The crowd started clapping when they noticed it, too, pleased hums of approval and whistles coming from them at the appearance. He couldn’t actually see much from here, and just as he was about to thank the stars for the fact, a big display screen he hadn’t even noticed flicked on, its shiny surface enlarging the scene onstage. Sabre hid his face in his hands. More sounds. Everyone was happy.
He could feel Mr. Juste adjusting himself against his seat, too. Leaning back, hands interlaced together and a leg resting over the other. The weapon let out a breath.
Someone was talking over a speaker system spread across the salon, but he couldn’t really make himself pay attention to it. On the platform was a kid. They looked around with wide eyes, posture perfectly straight and hands together in front of themself. Their hands were clasped together, he noticed, cringing. Fancy clothes wore them, different from the bullshit Juste had chosen for him. He didn’t like looking at whatever it was. Their hair was done neat, tight braids along their scalp. There was a collar around their throat.
The one around his felt slightly colder, against his skin.
The first bids started, and the one for sale flinched at the offers, loudly announced on the speaker. Their chest heaved, close if not already hyperventilating, and at some point they just dropped their head to the floor and stayed there, still. He couldn’t see their face anymore.
Some other number was shouted. Tension spread across the room, silence. One second went by. Then two. Then three. Double that.
They were sold.
It went like that for hours. He was starting to get genuinely bored, and Juste was also hungry. He bitched and moaned about it to his friends, who were insisting soon there’d be a break for all to enjoy the hors d'oeuvres before continuing. They were occasionally bidding, quickly quitting after a wave of higher offers outdid theirs, but they seemed to be waiting for something in particular.
Big moment for a friend, he recalled Juste saying earlier, but Sabre wasn’t sure if he cared at this point.
More people stood on the stage, sometimes a line of up to five. He wasn’t paying enough attention to figure out how that worked, if they were sold together or what, but those were few. Some were taller, more grown. One glared at a spot in front of them where he assumed was where the camera was, ire evident in their face. Sabre internally gave them points for the bravery. Others weren’t as bold as that one. Some had their hands cuffed. Some visibly bore chains around their ankles, receding to the back of the platform into the curtains. If you were paying attention. He wasn’t sure if it made a difference if the rest of the guests were or not.
Some of them were also fully tied up.
He looked away, in some, mostly because it was pretty samey and uninteresting of a show to look at. He caught a glimpse of a gag once, winced in sympathy. At least it wasn’t a muzzle.
Then the hundredth millionth thousandth merchandise came onstage, and the noises of excitement were closer to him that time. He flinched. Ananda—he was pretty sure that was her name—made a motion of punching her fist in the air, her partner shrieking in excitement. His gut was filled with dread. He figured he didn’t want to look.
He looked.
None of the others in the audience seemed as animated over that one as his rowmates were. He looked, stared, analyzed, but there didn’t seem to be anything special about that one for him, either. Dainty chains around the hands to keep them behaved in place, a modest outfit he thankfully didn’t have anything to note about, a single cuff around the ankle. Brown skin, not-long-nor-short hair, dark but very vibrant under the golden light. It was undone and the curls were loose. Nothing particularly remarkable—some scars and bruises in the bits of skin that were showing, but again, he hadn’t seen any devoid of these tonight either. Whatever. He’d figured by now that everyone Juste hanged out with was just weird.
The speakers announced their number and gave a commentary on behavior or a remark about their appearance, blah blah blah, something something, lot #076, something something, aged fourteen, nothing about acquisition type, because apparently no one here cared enough to want to know, and then a ding went off and it meant everyone better start bidding or they were going to throw it out or something. Everything went just the same as it’d been all the other times. He had a feeling Juste would be scrolling down on his phone, but he had a vague memory of being searched and told to leave potential recording devices behind back at the hall or maybe at the entrance, so the handler was mostly trying to hide his yawns and resting his head against a hand supported on the arm rest. Ananda was barely contained on her seat on Sabre’s other side. They were keeping quiet, mostly, but then after some other number was shouted they started bidding. No shouting, and now that he looked, there were little controllers handed to them. Numbers #11 and #12, respectively, started having their offers displayed on another screen and announced over the speakers. Sabre looked down to watch the one on the platform through the screen again. They looked upset. That was fair. He was also upset. The expression on their face was more a scowl than a frown, but they were avoiding looking the camera’s way. The angle the screen was getting was mostly framing their cheeks.
Another ding. Oh. The highest bidder hadn’t been followed by any. Had Juste’s friends gotten their new little toy?
He tensed seeing the smaller screen with the bid history. Okay. Maybe not. He didn’t know who guest #53 was, but he hoped it wouldn’t end up badly for him. The pause stretched, not quite silence with all the background noise, but much more quiet with the muteness of the speakers, and he counted a couple seconds. How many were there, again? Six? Three went past. Then four. He threw his head back in the chair. How fantastic. He hoped Juste wouldn’t borrow him out as consolation or anything.
Five seconds.
A new number appeared on the screen. It was so high he couldn’t quite name whatever it was called, but it was signed below by something much lower. That he could read.
#012.
No other bids followed, and Sabre figured that the others just were a little shocked or maybe very sleepy already, because the next six seconds went by in a blink. Or maybe he was the one already falling asleep. Another ding followed, and Ananda leaned back on her seat, beaming. He couldn’t quite see Ern’s expression, but from the barely-contained giggling, he figured that it would be similar.
The kid back onstage had a sour face when the speakers announced sold.
The hors d'oeuvres weren’t all that bad.
The break area seemed simultaneously both smaller and larger than the auction salon, but maybe it was the lack of chairs. Or the lighting. This one was much brighter. It was a bit of a relief to his eyes, to be honest. Sabre chewed down on a bite-sized coxinha, teeth hitting the shredded bits of meat nested inside the dough.
Oh.
He raised a hand over his mouth.
Maybe this event wasn’t that awful, after all. Maybe.
Mr. Juste had been going off and grabbing stuff from tables—mostly drinks—chatting with random people Sabre didn’t know (and whom he probably didn’t, either), and had ordered him to stay in place so he wouldn’t lose him. The weapon was fine with that. Waiters were going around carrying trays with canapes and fruit and water and he hadn’t been forbidden to eat. So.
He could enjoy himself.
When his handler came back (for the third time) Ernesto was by his side, checking on some little notebook he’d been keeping in his pocket and gesticulating a lot. Juste was just nodding along with attention instead of opening his mouth, which was kind of unusual, but the other man seemed really excited. Sabre had a feeling of why that was.
“What do you suggest?” He was asking Juste, once the both of them got within Sabre’s earshot. He plucked an olive from his little stick and stuffed it into his mouth. They tasted strong. “Like, Nanda and I haven’t ever had the opportunity to get something like that, but you’re experienced, right? This one, the boy, how did you get him to—”
Another ambulant tray walked past, and then Sabre wasn’t listening anymore. He reached out to grab a cheese puff and a little fried something.
His shoulder was grabbed from behind before he could. He closed his eyes, opened them, took a breath. Turned behind.
“See?” Juste was speaking. Not even to him. He pushed down the frustration and looked away. “You need to train them like this. Positive reinforcement is important, but if you have a firm grip, they’ll take the cue and get used to following your lead.” Ernesto was nodding, eyes shining, as if Juste was some sort of sage or a master that was passing down valuable knowledge to the mere mortals. Juste, to his credit, was speaking as if he actually knew what he was talking about. He put a hand behind Sabre’s neck as if he’d shove him somewhere, lightly closing around just to show he could, or something. He was so weird. Sabre couldn’t help but stare at him. “Don’t overdo rewards. You should give them an adjustment period, as well, but you two can’t forget to assert the rules and that—” He stopped himself in a sudden. “Oh, there she is. Our cue.” Ernesto whipped his head to where Juste was looking at, one of the guards pointing to them beyond a door and gesturing. Sabre’s neck was released. He didn’t need to be told to follow when the handler and his friend walked away and into an unknown room.
Two white, professional corridors to the left, there was an office. Not a party room, nor a hall, an actual office. Somebody the host had hired was watching over the place, an old lady who seemed bored. She was wearing something similar to the guards, but a little golden clip was attached to her lapel. She held a pen and had her arms crossed. As the door closed behind them, Sabre just caught three places in her outfit where she could be hiding a gun or a knife (which he did not get worked up about). The previously-missing Ananda was there, too, signing something that was on a table too low for her to reach comfortably, but she didn’t seem to mind. There was a big smile dancing on her lips.
The #076 kid was sitting just behind.
Sabre didn’t straight-up look at them, risking barely a glance from the corner of his eye. They were still upset, annoyed, maybe, looking at their lap and seething under the expensive layer of linen. Ernesto beamed at their sight, which they definitely noticed but pointedly ignored, and went up to approach his partner.
They happily signed away some papers whose contents he wouldn’t be able to decipher nor guess, nodded to some of the stuff the lady was saying and sent stares to the merchandise sitting on the small sofa. Their bangs were falling over their eyes. They didn’t ever look up.
“Don’t they look happy?” Juste whispered to him, at some point. He had been mostly trying to not fall asleep standing as they worked when the handler’s voice snapped him out. He blinked, narrowing his eyes at the couple.
“If that’s what you’d call it.”
A snort. He leaned against the closed door. “It was good for them to have contact. Ever since this one was acquired some months ago, Ernesto was over the moon and convinced Any that they needed it,” he chuckled. Sabre didn’t express his reaction. He just kept looking forward to the concrete on the floor. What a maze of a facility. “Been getting sent photos and everything. I’m glad they managed to buy him.”
The weapon hummed in acknowledgement to not have to give him a response, and then Juste’s friends finally finished their stupid little paperwork and took the leash the lady had been holding. The merchandise twitched in their seat when the restraint switched hands.
“Thank you for your contribution,” the lady smiled, giving a firm handshake to Ananda. It was the first sign of emotion she’d given ever since they entered the little negotiation office. Ananda’s smile hadn’t ever faded, but it was a little more professional than that of her partner’s.
“Always,” she replied. “I’m very pleased with our acquisition. It’s been good doing business with you.”
The lady retracted her hand, giving her a slight bow. “Likewise.”
“Shall we go?” Ernesto called, already at the door. He was sending not-that-subtle glances to their brand new little pet still sitting at the corner of the room, thankfully not the one holding their leash. They’d already have been pushed to the ground with a rough pull or another from the over-excited puppy there. Ananda was far more gentle. Something dawned over them, a slight tremour settling over their features, but they slowly, as if trying to convince themself to do it, got themself up on two legs and followed the tug of her hands.
A wise choice.
They went out in a different direction than the one they’d come from, Sabre being pushed by his handler to the back, his friend’s acquisition right in front behind everyone as they were led by another guard. He let out a breath. What a long, disgustingly boring event. He really wanted to go home. The kid ahead, wobbling slightly with what he supposed was less likely weakness and more like barely-contained distaste, had their hair waving behind them as they went. They were still looking down.
When they took a turn and Sabre briefly stood side-by-side with them, he caught them glaring up to the woman holding their leash.
Hm. They really ought to follow whatever advice Juste was willing to offer. Probably. He found himself hoping that it went smoothly. He had enough experience assisting handlers at the training facilities to know all that could go wrong in the process.
He thought there’d be no car waiting for them on the way out and that they’d have to call the headquarters to send somebody to pick them up again when Juste finally received his phone back, but Andy (?) and Ernesto had their own limo and chauffeur ready to find them at their location and give Juste a ride home. Oh. That was convenient.
Whatever it was the auction house had dressed their merchandise with, it wasn’t warm. The night was cool, more now that they were probably past midnight, and he caught them trying and failing to hide chills running through their arms. Or maybe it was the fear. Who knew. Sabre was put to sit right beside them, the adults a seat in front and the leash clipped to the inside of the car. The privacy glass between the properties’ section and the owners’ one slid up, and he felt his eye twitch for the thousandth time that night. Gossipy bastards. He crossed his arms again, looking out of the window. The bought one didn’t speak.
It was only a little awkward.
The house Juste was staying in for the weekend was also way too far away, he was reminded, when half a dozen hours passed and they still hadn’t arrived. He took off his gloves, looked back inside. He was getting tired of the landscape.
The seatbelt against his chest felt tight.
“You can speak, you know,” he said out into the open, not looking at anything in particular. “They’re not listening.”
He thought he heard a scoff. The other one kept their arms firm at the sides of their body, looking in the opposite direction of him. He could guess they were glaring daggers into the cushioning.
He heard them swallow.
“I’m not fucking with you,” he added, more of a whisper. This was really boring. He wished he had another weapon to talk to, then. But that was the best he was getting.
There was another pause. Sabre considered quitting.
“Speak,” a voice muttered across the limo. It was strange, low and hoarse. Almost tentative. “And I can also run off and fly,” they snorted, copying his phrasing, then mocked, “They won’t catch me.”
He fidgeted with the gloves. They were thinner than what he was used to. “Very funny.”
They didn’t answer.
...And he’d fucked that up.
Before he could mentally mark the next twenty minutes as five hours, though, they decided to talk. Maybe they’d bought the they aren’t listening.
“...Do you know what it’ll be like?” They eventually whispered into the car. The sound was so abrupt he raised his head off the hand he’d been supporting it into and turned it in their direction. They were staring at their lap, hands fallen beyond them as if still weighted down by whatever chains they’d made them wear. “Did they buy you?”
Sabre didn’t sigh. “I’m not worth many bucks.”
They recoiled. Okay, maybe a bad joke. “He’s my handler,” he vaguely gestured in Juste’s direction through the thick glass. They raised their head a little and seemed to squint their eyes to see whatever he was pointing at. “He just drags me around. I’m not supposed to be a...” he wet his lips, didn’t allow himself to pause, “a pet.”
Something heavy fell over their shoulders. “I’m not, either.”
That’s what they all think, he thought, but didn’t say it out loud. “It’s not like they care,” he said instead, since it was mostly true. They didn’t answer.
“Are you...” they trailed off. Drew a breath. Closed their mouth. Turned their head to the other side. “No, forget it.”
“Am I what?” He frowned. He had a couple guesses for how that sentence could end. He wasn’t sure why he wanted to know.
“...Willing?”
He cringed. “That’s a strong way to put it.”
They snorted again. It seemed a bit more like a laugh. “Ah. Okay.”
“You don’t need to be,” Sabre mumbled, for some reason. “Just follow through what they say and you’ll be fine,” he lied. They seemed to sulk further at that.
“Who are they?” They asked, next. Sabre glanced in their direction. Maybe they did want to talk. Or maybe they desperately wanted a source of information, that’d do it too. Sabre considered trying to extrapolate from what little he knew to give them a lead, but quit halfway through.
He leaned back against his seat. Answered, “I don’t know.” Then added, “I’m sorry.”
They fidgeted with their thumbs. “Then why you’re here?”
“My handler drags me around,” he repeated. “I told you. He’s their friend or something.” With a little bit of cotton in his mouth, he added, “He has a lot of friends.”
A heavy sigh left their lips. It was slightly dramatic. “This sucks.”
“Pretty much.”
“Why don’t you have a leash?”
His sigh, he hid. Yeah, Juste probably asked himself that pretty often. He hoped they really weren’t listening from ahead. Juste didn’t need any more ideas. He didn’t want it to become more than a joke. “I have a collar,” he said, instead. Looked at them. Their eyes, also brown, were facing him back. Wide. They were crowned with eyebags, scared, sure, tired, but not scared. He wasn’t sure if that was good. He hoped they’d manage to power through panic when they finally found it. The word collar got them to make a sour face, recoil further. Sabre made himself shrug. “We all do.”
“We?”
He breathed in. Then out. “There’s more of me. We kill,” he told them. “Hurt. Restrain. Pets don’t need ‘handlers’,” he pointed out.
They visibly tensed up. Okay, amazing.
“I wasn’t told to hurt you.”
“How old are you even supposed to be?”
He averted his gaze. “Maybe... fifteen?”
He didn’t need to be looking to see they were staring at him.
“Around fifteen,” he repeated, crossing his arms again. “I’m sure.”
They didn’t voice their disbelief. “I’m fourteen.”
“I know,” he said, then regretted it. “They said it aloud.”
They let out a load of air through their nose. “Of course.”
He stared at them for a little longer.
“You’ll survive it,” he said. “They haven’t bought you to send into the field or kill off.”
They played with their loose locks. “That isn’t very reassuring.”
He looked down. “It is.”
They drew a breath, closed their mouth. Mustered the courage to open it again.
They didn’t actually find it in them to ask him to elaborate.
Another bit of time went by, and Sabre wasn’t sure if he wanted them to drop at Juste’s temporary house already or for it to go on a little longer. He was tired. He didn’t want to get up and walk to bed. He wished they’d let him sleep here.
“Do you have a name?” They tentatively asked. Sabre had closed his eyes. Hummed something in affirmative. “And it is...?”
He opened them, groaning. Maybe that pushiness wouldn’t really serve them in the long run. But again, who was he to say anything.
“I’m probably not meant to tell you.”
“You’re probably not meant to dislike it here,” they mumbled, as if afraid to retort. Sabre pursed his lips. He’d pretend he hadn’t heard it.
The car stopped. He tensed, then realized it was just a red light. Sabre raised his hands to his face. He wished they’d stayed home. He wished the entire auction house exploded before anything could have been set up. He wished—
“I’m Nie.”
He peeled his palms from his face. “Sorry?”
They were sitting with their arms crossed, back to looking down. “I’m Nie. They called me seventy-something, but I’m Nie.”
He swallowed. “Maybe not for long.”
A pause. “Was that how it went with you?”
“I don’t remember,” he replied, annoyed. “It’s been too long.”
They tensed up. He could almost see the I’m fifteen replaying on their head. “Liar.”
“Whatever you say,” he shrugged. Nie looked to the side. He had the urge to ask them about something. If they knew how to tend wounds. If they knew how to keep quiet. If they knew how to put on a show. If they were smart enough to make it. He looked out of the car window again. He recognized the neighbourhood.
They were drawing near.
“I’m Sabre,” he mumbled. “Have been since I can remember.”
Nie’s gaze weighed on his side again. He bit the inside of his mouth.
“That sucks,” they said.
“Doesn’t,” he replied, because it was all he had the energy to. He watched the streets pass through the window. The pizza place Juste had dragged him to yesterday showed up when the car turned the corner, vanished into the distance again. Nie waited. He didn’t say anything further.
When the silence fell over their side of the car again, he didn’t resist it. He really wanted to go back to sleep.
His companion drew a breath, loudly. Exhaled it back. Drew in another, held.
It was shaky when they breathed out. Sabre kept staring out. He didn’t want to look. If it was him, he wouldn’t want to be looked at, but again, he wasn’t them. They weren’t him. They didn’t know what they were getting into.
He fidgeted with his tie again.
“Our stop,” he said, when the car started slowing down. For good. The stupid house Juste had borrowed stood tall, looming over them in their little limousine. He sighed. “You’ll go with them now.”
He heard doors clicking open on the front. He should probably unbuckle his seatbelt, too.
“Do they meet a lot?” Nie whispered, looking at him. Sabre met their gaze, uncomfortable. “Can—will—you—”
“No,” he anticipated. Looked away. “I don’t think we’ll meet again.”
They visibly held in a tsk. He took in their appearance for one last time. Their door was opened.
Nie flinched. Sabre didn’t.
He turned his head to look at Mr. Juste.
“I was resting my elbow on that.”
“Of course you were,” he replied. “Up. Or I’ll just leave you with them if you want to stay,” he teased. “That works, too.”
Sabre rolled his eyes, freed his chest from the belt. “Because you can afford to lose a Canary.”
“They’d forgive me,” Juste said. “Maybe they can give me Espa next.”
He snorted. It wasn’t a happy laugh. Nie was still in the back of the car.
Sabre sent them a last glance.
Good luck, he mouthed. Understanding downed on their eyes. They’d gotten it. Nie’s face hardened.
They didn’t look forward once as the windows rolled up, closing the last sight of their brown curls, and their new owners’ car drove away. Silence replaced the limousine’s engine. He felt cold, all of a sudden. It was probably way too late.
“So?” Juste’s arm landed heavily around his shoulder, making him actually flinch this time. The cunt. He glared at him. He was also due to go to bed. “Had fun?”
“No,” he spat. “I wish they didn’t have as much security. Could’ve had some burglar kill you and free me off your ass.”
Juste laughed into the night, nudging him towards the door.
“You’d love that, wouldn’t you,” he teased. Sabre didn’t grit his teeth. “You’d get sold, too, Sabre. Loose dog without a tag.”
Sabre’s shoulders slumped as he said it, inserted his key into the door. A tag.
#076.
“It’s better than you, anyways,” he replied, voice low. The weapon walked past Juste before he could enter. Kicked off his shoes at the door. He wanted to go to bed. He made himself add, “I’d make a great pet.”
———
febuwhump taglist: @mxrr0rball @aromanticsky @oros-ash3s
(lmk if you'd like to be tagged for febuwhump! not all of these months fics will be as refined as what i strive for when i give myself more time to revise and edit them, so i separated this taglist from the main one, where you'd be tagged for those other fics.)
"sniper"
A little silly drabble ^_^ Living weapon shenigans yay <3 They are both around fourteen here.
Espada Masterlist
———
CWs: Minor character death, living weapon whumpees, mentioned corporal punishment, child whumpee (as stated above).
It was way past three AM. Sabre repressed the urge to yawn. He lightly adjusted his grip on his rifle, more out of boredom than out of necessity. He was firm on his spot for what—hours? And there was no movement coming from the neighbourhood below the hill he was settled in—no significant one anyway.
Mr. Juste was taking so long. The hell was he even doing? How hard was it to lure out the target to get him shot down? Despite his annoyance, he stayed silent, and stayed put, because as gruelingly bothersome and irritating as it was, this wasn’t play.
It was a mission.
And Sabre was a Condor. He was one to honor the title.
A faint ruffling on the bushes he was hidden in made his eyes snap to the spot, tensing up. It was so weak he wouldn’t have caught it on time if his ears weren’t this sharpened by the silence. When there was nothing else to listen to, any noise felt like a roar.
He relaxed when he saw who it was.
The figure crouched down on his side, quiet as a leaf in a day with no wind.
Espa didn’t say a thing. Not with its words. It would be foolish of them to talk out loud. But they turned to him, signing some simple signals. They’d been taught them almost a decade ago, but it was always useful. His eyes were adjusted to the dark, and her gestures were clear.
Time.
Here.
How much.
You?
Not a mission-relevant question in the slightest. He hadn’t expected one.
He resisted the urge to mutter something that would have gotten him slapped were a handler present for it. He just shot her a look that was enough to convey how done he was holding position. Its lips faintly curled up. He knew it was on purpose, to make fun of him, because Espa’s lips never curled up on their own. He deepened his scowl in response.
A mute giggle.
He didn’t know what they were doing here, nor the exact details of their part of the mission—but if they were here, it must be done. Its presence was a bit comforting. He liked it when they were assigned to the same place.
Another noise drove him out of his thoughts. This time, it came from down there. Sabre shot his vision into the spot, all of his attention sharpening on the scope of the rifle now, in a way it hadn’t been before when he was aware of his surroundings. With Espa here, he didn’t need to worry about it. She noticed his shift—it was minimal, more a change in demeanor than a movement—and took another look around, assuming position. They would guard his back if anything came to happen.
Mr. Juste was coming out of the building—finally—and in his tow, was an old dude in fancy clothes. The handler wobbled and leaned against the shorter man, looking tipsy. Sabre knew he wasn’t. The bitch never got drunk mid-operation. He was almost thankful for that. A drunk Juste was somehow even worse than a sober one.
The lights inside the building were still lit, even this dead in the night. He faintly registered the chatter of the two men, Juste’s sly smile seeming to draw the other one in. He held the target with a boring conversation which the man was no doubt, just too polite to decline. And in a very inconvenient position, at that. Sometimes, Sabre could swear his handler just did shit like this to make things harder for him. He could never know with him. They were both half-hidden by the wide awning of the apartment’s entryway, and Juste gestured way too much around him for Sabre to get a more comfortable shot.
He adjusted his aim, regardless. The weapon steadied his breathing, all his world narrowing down into one point of focus. All he could hear was his heartbeat pumping blood to his ears and the even air coming in and out of his lungs.
A thought crossed over his head, then. He could just shoot Mr. Juste here. Espa wouldn’t sell him out. He could even claim it was an accident or something. Probably would get beaten to an inch of his life regardless, but the thought of getting rid of him was worth it. The man was distracted and barely even knew Sabre’s exact position. If he did it right, he could even take out both of them with a single bullet.
The silencer muffled the shot, but in a second, the old man’s body jerked with surprise and red. Juste caught him, faux-worry visible on his face from here. He felt limp in the same breath. Limp, heavy, and dead.
Blood dripped down his temples, precisely into his brain. Sabre breathed out, relaxing his posture for the first time in hours.
He felt a little friendly punch to his shoulder. Espa gave him a proud thumbs up. He chuckled into the grass, a silent thing.
Soon after—both weapons hidden in a more closed spot now—Sabre’s speaker rang with an overly annoying voice.
“Good job,” Juste’s words pitched in his ear. He could feel himself rolling his eyes. Espa caught it, activating theirs.
“Mr. Juste.”
“Ah, Espa,” he greeted. “So you’re done with your part.”
“I’m with Sabre.”
“Great,” a pause. “Bring him. One of you is going to give me a shot in the leg in half an hour. Mind the location. Stay hidden. Go back to the camp, after. Don’t wait for me to sleep.”
“Can’t it be on the head?” Sabre asked. “‘Cuz I was just about to do it anyway. If you didn’t get out of the way there you’d have more than a hole in you already.”
He heard a laugh.
“No, Sabre. Espa, darling, make sure he gets himself five lashes for that, alright? I’ll be by the park,” he provided.
Before Sabre could think over a retort, the device’s sound gave place to the grainy static. In another second, it went mute.
A slap on his back.
He tensed and turned to her. “What?”
“Jesus, you’re stupid,” Espa muttered, sighing. Her hand wasn’t heavy in the slightest, but he was annoyed today. He didn’t like it. “I swear you seem to have some sort of death wish.”
“He likes my jokes,” he shrugged.
They rolled their eyes.
“Next time I’m the one killing you,” they poked out their tongue at him. “No, you know what? I’m giving you your lashes now.”
“Not falling for that,” he accused. She didn’t even move a finger to take off her belt.
But he knew they’d do it, eventually. Juste would be rougher on both of them if Espa didn’t. If he asked her—maybe she’d back down with it, but he wasn’t going to, anyways.
“A punch, then.”
“Mr. Juste is waiting. We should go.”
Espa repressed another sigh, seeming to genuinely want to punch him right now. He considered it a win.
The road to the coordinates the handler had given them was surrounded by nature, branches and trees concealing them in the already dark night. They made him trip on one of them on the way. Sabre glared at her.
It grinned.
“I’m gonna get you back for that,” he muttered in the dark.
Espa just chuckled.
“Of course you are,” they replied. There was no doubt behind it. They weren’t worried. Their voice was the only thing cutting through the faint noises of the woods’ path. It drew out a hand for him to take.
He picked it.
———
Espada Taglist: (lmk if you'd like to be tagged on main chapters only!) @otter-chaos-violence @oros-ash3s @inhurtandincomfort @swisscheesethethird @warmfuzz-ies @whumpawaydarling @catnykit