The Last Thing He Gives – Calibration
Continued from here.
[Content warning: defiant whumpee, medical whump, stress position, restraints, interrogation]
He wakes to pressure.
Not pain at first.
Just pressure—deep in his shoulders, across his chest, threaded down both arms in a way that feels wrong before he fully understands why.
Then sensation catches up.
His eyes open sharply.
The lights are dimmer.
Not dark. Never dark. But lower than before, the white glare softened into something colder, flatter. Enough to make the room feel unfamiliar for half a second.
Enough to disorient.
His breathing stutters once before he steadies it.
Okay.
Okay.
His wrists are still restrained, but higher now. Spread wider apart than before. Elevated just enough above the line of his shoulders that tension pulls continuously through the joints. Not unbearable.
Not yet.
That’s the problem.
The position has no relief in it. No way to settle. Every inch of him feels suspended in the anticipation of strain.
His ankles are secured separately now too, farther apart than before, keeping his spine locked flat against the table.
He tests one arm instinctively. The restraint answers with a sharp metallic pull.
And pain immediately flashes hot through his shoulder socket. Not from the restraint itself.
From the position.
His jaw clenches before he can stop it.
“…you redesigned the furniture,” he mutters hoarsely.
No response.
But there’s movement nearby. Not hidden this time.
A chair sits several feet from the table, angled toward him with deliberate neatness. Someone occupies it already. Watching.
The same composed figure from before.
Clean sleeves. Straight posture. Hands folded loosely together.
Waiting.
His stomach tightens despite himself.
That’s new.
“You know,” he says after a second, voice rough from disuse, “most people buy me dinner before the bondage setup.”
Nothing.
The figure studies him for another long moment before speaking.
“You slept intermittently for three hours.”
His throat feels dry enough to crack. “Congratulations to me?”
“No sedatives were required.”
That lands oddly.
Not praise.
Assessment.
He shifts again despite the warning already screaming through his shoulders. The movement drags another sharp line of pain through both arms, deeper this time, immediate and ugly enough to pull a harder breath from him.
The figure notices.
Everything here notices.
“Muscular fatigue beginning,” they say calmly.
“Yeah,” he says tightly. “That tends to happen when you hang people up like spare parts.”
No reaction.
The figure rises from the chair.
His body goes still automatically.
Not fear, he tells himself. Readiness.
The person approaches the table without hurry, carrying a slim tablet in one hand. No instruments. No tray.
That somehow feels worse.
They stop beside him. “Your cooperation will reduce duration.”
He laughs once under his breath. “Sure it will.”
The tablet activates with a soft tone. The figure glances at it briefly.
Then:
“State your name.”
He stares at the ceiling. “No.”
A pause. No immediate consequence.
His pulse doesn’t lower anyway.
The figure taps the screen once.
Something beneath the table shifts with a quiet mechanical sound.
Then—
His arms are pulled another inch upward.
The pain is instantaneous.
A violent stretch tears through both shoulders hard enough to wrench a sound out of him before he can stop it—a sharp, involuntary gasp as every muscle across his chest locks tight in reflex. His back arches automatically against the restraints.
The position holds. Doesn’t release.
Oh, fuck that—
He sucks air carefully through his nose, fighting to force his muscles to unclench, but there’s nowhere for the strain to go. It just sits there, digging deeper into the joints with every breath.
Not sharp anymore. Heavy. Grinding.
The interrogator watches him stabilize.
“State your name.”
He laughs again, but it shakes at the edges now.
“…creative,” he manages.
Another tap. The table shifts again.
Not upward this time.
Outward.
His arms spread wider.
A white-hot bolt tears through his left shoulder so suddenly his vision flashes. He chokes on the breath that tries to escape him, fingers convulsing hard against the restraints as pain radiates down both arms in brutal, pulsing waves.
The position stops there. Held precisely at the threshold before something tears.
Tears.
His breathing loses rhythm for a second. The interrogator waits through it patiently.
“State your name.”
He squeezes his eyes shut hard enough to see sparks.
Don’t react.
Too late for that now.
“…go to hell,” he bites out.
Silence.
Then:
“Deflection maintained.”
The tablet chimes softly. The table does not move again.
Instead, the restraints at his wrists tighten incrementally.
Small adjustment.
Tiny.
But in this position it changes everything.
Pressure bites hard across already strained joints, forcing his arms into stricter alignment. The pain deepens instantly—less explosive than before, more invasive. A relentless pull buried deep under muscle and tendon.
His shoulders tremble. He hates that they can see it.
The interrogator’s voice remains perfectly level. “You accessed Facility Archive Seven on the nineteenth.”
His eyes open slowly.
There it is. Real questions.
He swallows against the dryness in his throat. “Sounds fake.”
“Who authorized your entry?”
He says nothing.
The strain builds by degrees now—not mechanically, but biologically. Muscles tiring. Nerves inflaming. The slow dawning realization that his body cannot maintain this position indefinitely.
That’s intentional.
The interrogator watches the silence stretch. Then asks calmly: “What did you remove?”
Another adjustment. Not wider.
Higher.
The change is minimal. The effect isn’t.
Pain lances viciously through both shoulders, deep enough now to feel nauseating. His head jerks back against the table with a muffled sound as his entire upper body strains involuntarily against the restraints.
A broken breath escapes him. His hands are shaking openly now. He can’t stop it.
The interrogator waits until his breathing starts working again. “What did you remove?”
“Nothing,” he snaps immediately.
Too fast.
The interrogator’s eyes flick briefly to the tablet.
“Stress elevation inconsistent with response confidence.”
Shit.
He turns his head sharply toward them despite the position screaming in protest. “You measuring my heartbeat now?”
“Yes.”
That shouldn’t make his stomach drop the way it does.
The interrogator steps closer.
“Who else accessed the archive?”
“No one.”
A beat.
Then the interrogator says, almost conversationally:
“That answer was truthful.”
His chest tightens.
Why tell him that?
Before he can process it—
The restraints pull wider again.
This time he actually cries out. The sound tears free before he can contain it, rough and sharp as agony rips through his left shoulder hard enough to make his entire arm spasm violently against the restraint.
For one horrifying second he thinks something dislocated. The pain surges hot and unstable through the joint, radiating down into his elbow, his wrist, his hand—
Then settles just enough to remain survivable.
Barely.
He’s breathing too fast now. He knows it. Can’t stop it.
Sweat slicks cold along the back of his neck despite the freezing room.
The interrogator studies him with clinical focus. “Why did you enter the archive?”
He laughs once—breathless, wrecked around the edges.
“You really—” he sucks in air sharply as another pulse of pain cuts through the shoulder, “—really need better security.”
The interrogator regards him silently. Then reaches down.
Not to the tablet.
To his arm.
Gloved fingers press carefully against the damaged shoulder.
Not gentle.
Precise.
Testing.
The pressure hits something deep in the joint and pain detonates instantly through his arm. He jerks hard against the restraints with a strangled sound, muscles locking uselessly as panic flashes bright and animal through his chest.
“Easy,” the interrogator says calmly.
The word almost makes him hate them.
Their fingers press again. Slightly different angle.
His vision blurs.
“Answer the question.”
“Fuck—”
Pressure. White pain spears downward through his shoulder blade hard enough to make his whole body shake.
“Why did you enter the archive?”
“I didn’t take anything!” he snaps, voice cracking violently this time.
The room goes still. Too still.
The interrogator slowly removes their hand from his shoulder.
Looks at the tablet. Then back at him.
“You did not deny entry.”
The realization hits him like another blow.
No.
No, no—
His pulse spikes so hard he can hear it.
The interrogator watches the reaction with terrible attentiveness. “Interesting,” they murmur.
He clamps his mouth shut hard enough to hurt.
Idiot.
Pain throbs relentlessly through both shoulders now, each pulse of his heartbeat grinding deeper into exhausted muscle. His arms are trembling continuously.
The interrogator returns to the chair.
Sits. Composed. Unhurried.
Like they have all the time in the world.
“You will continue answering questions.”
His breathing still won’t steady completely. “And if I don’t?”
The interrogator folds their hands again.
“Your joints will fail before the restraints do.”
Silence.
Cold and absolute.
His stomach twists hard.
Because the worst part—
The worst part is that they say it like a measurement.
Not a threat.
The tablet gives another soft tone. The interrogator looks down at it briefly.
Then asks:
“What were you looking for?”
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