Carewhumper, but they start out purely as a caretaker to a conditioned whumpee. Slowly they start indulging in little things whumpee is doing for them.
First, carewhumper simply ceases stopping whumpee when whumpee does something for them unprompted. I mean, it's easier if carewhumper just lets whumpee make them breakfast, it would just make whumpee sad if caretaker told them they didn't need to do that, right?
Carewhumper is busy, so it is alright that they forget to remind whumpee that whumpee doesn't have to sleep on the floor. I guess they don't have to buy whumpee a proper bed after all.
In the end, carewhumper realises how easy it is to give whumpee little commands, just snap their fingers and whumpee obeys their every wish. Isn't it convenient?
Carewhumper convinces themselves that it is better for themselves and whumpee, if they stop trying to remove the conditioning. Whumpee seems happier being able to serve, and showing them how to live normally again would be such a painful process. And carewhumper can't complain about their changed relationship either.
If whumper could see that, they would be overjoyed, though. To them it was obvious that whumpee would never be able to live normally. Fantastic that whumpee found themselves a new owner.
Whumpees that have been deprived of sleep by Whumper, so much so that they don't remember how to walk in a straight line and can't figure out whether the recent appearance of little black bugs in their cell are real or a hallucination.
Whumpees that can't get a full night's rest. They doze off, only to be jolted awake by their own anxiety of not knowing when Whumper would come back. Perhaps they are awakened by phlegm-coated coughs induced by their illness. They are awakened by nightmares, or by Caregiver who is worried they may succumb to hypothermia, or by a thunderstorm, or the rough blanket scratching their open wounds, or so on.
Whumpees who pull all nighters to protect their friends or lovers.
Whumpees whose eyes burn when they finally can close their eyes. Whumpees whose muscles twitch, who can't stop yawning no matter how hard they try to stifle it. Whumpees with dark, glassy eyes. Whumpees who are slow to react or have a hard time keeping up with the conversation. Whumpees with throbbing headaches. Whumpees with brain fog and memory loss.
Whumpees who have been on the run and have over exhausted their bodies. Their muscles and joints continue to scream long after its over. Whumpees with extensive blood loss. Whumpees who are malnourished.
Whumpees whose survivor's guilt keeps them awake, wondering what they might have done differently, whether it was all their fault, or why they were the ones to live.
Whumpees whose bodies are in chronic pain or illness and who have to hide it, causing muscle and mental fatigue. They keep going with a smile until they collapse or pass out.
Whumpees who break down in tears, begging to be left alone so they can rest. Whumpees who sob when they are told that the bed in front of them is theirs to use whenever they want.
Hello hello! Did you know that among the many aptitudinal tests they made me to before allowing me to become a white collar slave (and there were many, really too many) there was one that was meant to test my levels of resilience? Well reader, my results were off the roof, which is why after having spent a few days wallowing in my sorrows at is it my right, I have decided that the solutions to bad writing is simply to write more. You are very welcome. This is a snippet on which I’ve been working for a couple of christmases already, as the subject matter is what I’d be inspired for in the aforementioned period and no other, and so this year I decided to push through it and finish it for you all. I hope you enjoy it, and upwards and onwards 💪🏼
CW: long term captivity, mention of past torture and conditioning, mention of non-con (not explicit), collar, compulsion, religious themes and religious erasure, identity erasure, golden cage, slavery, angst, forced to kneel, murder threat.
The truth was, Kai didn’t even notice the passing of the first Christmas in captivity. Harsh as his conditions were down in the dungeons, he had no way of knowing what day it was, kept chained and strung up in perennial stress positions as he was. For Kyriel did his very best to isolate him from the world in that first year, to make him forget himself and whoever he’d been before him. So that Christmas Day passed like a torture day like another, Kai writhing and sobbing as his bones were snapped, the rope tightened around his throat.
The second year was different already, once Kyriel had brought him to the belly of the Tower and allowed him to crawl alive out of the mud. The captivity had moved above ground then, more about training and reconditioning for the day Kai would eventually be allowed outside the circle of the runes to fight. So that Christmas Day passed differently this time, Kai spending it on his knees with his arms behind his back — the collar tight around his throat, Kyriel lording over him as he forced him in between his legs where he sat at his desk. Kai’s only mean of taking note of the passing of time was the snow he could spy falling from his window, the tally of days he carved on the wooden side of his bed every time Kyriel allowed him back into it and did not keep him in his.
The third year, when Kyriel’s leash had relaxed enough to let him go out on his own in the Tower, after Kai had set fire to half of it and faced its consequences — Kai noticed the Yule tree at the centre of the square in the angel’s capital, visible from the balconies of the Tower he was now allowed to roam.
“Why don’t we have one of those in the Tower, Magister?” Kai asked that night, coughing after Kyriel had finished abusing his throat. The boy’s nails digged in his palms, his mind frantically clinging to whatever kernels of light he’d found on the day to keep himself sane. “Your people have decorations outside.”
Kyriel caressed the boy’s cheek, watching with satisfaction how he’d swallowed and recovered himself in less than a minute. A wondrous improvement from the hate and vitriol he might have expected just a few months prior, his pupil’s resilience awe inspiring and terrifying in equal measure.
“Our people, sweet,” he corrected, but there was no bite in his chiding. “And why should I celebrate the birth of a rival god?”
Kai startled, taken aback.
“Yule is about the cycle of seasons. It’s not—“ he started, the old human part of him that had believed in such things resurfacing from his youth. Silly, really — but then, he knew from his studies, there had been places when Christianity had co-opted the ancient pagan traditions of his people for its purposes, covering it with a coating of its own lore. And before then…
“You could take it over.” He suggested, calming down, thinking of logs and fire and celebration and how beautiful that time of rest had been once. “The Romans did it with their sun god.”
Kyriel only hummed, brushing gently the boy’s hair away.
It was so that the fourth year of Kai’s captivity a big Yule tree was erected in the Throne Room, to the secret delight of the Fallens whose humanity had not yet fully been ripped out of their bodies. Kyriel presenting his pupil with a new set of clothes in the morning, fine gold thread woven over a bed of red velvet, and with a vibrant green belt adorned with precious stones to match his collar and a new pair of golden bracelets. Nevermind that they were all too reminding of manacles — Kai accepted them gratefully, wariness in his every movement, lest his captor found a reason to hurt him instead.
“Happy Yule,” Kyriel smiled, the angel dressed himself in a deep blue velvety tunic, diamonds sparkling over his shoulders like a starry cape slowly reaching down his navel. “I have another present for you, sweet.”
Kai only hoped it wouldn’t be slaves, given how poorly it had gone the last time Kyriel’s had thought of gifting him some.
He was left to wonder, unease twisting and growing in his gut, as the angel let him out of his rooms and down the large marble stairs leading to the lower floors of the Tower. The corridors through which they walked were adorned by golden decorations that slaves must have spent the whole night putting up, candles and everywhere the eyes lay everything sparkled, catching the streaming morning light coming from windows frosted with ice. Kyriel’s courtesans, those who they encountered on their way down coming out of their rooms, bowed and moved aside as they walked — all dressed in a similar festive way to theirs, velvet clothes matching Kai and Kyriel’s own while being careful not to be quite as fine as their emperor’s were.
Kai could feel their curious eyes on him, realising Kyriel was taking him out to court without a muzzle on him. Without chains, a leash.
The Throne Room, when they finally entered it, was magnificently adorned. Kyriel’s throne shone crystal black among the twinkle of candles and the silver and gold of lights magically levitating in the air, the Yule Tree enormous and almost reaching the heights of the cavernous space where it was placed at the centre of the hall. It too, like the rest of the room, was covered in bright silver garlands and small balls of crystal and bone twinkling and reflecting the many lights shining across the room. And at its bottom, in a pile that kept growing with every member of the court approaching to deliver a package of their own, was tribute — for Kai wouldn’t dare call it presents when he doubted they were freely given. Not when Kyriel wanted to put up a show, not when the consequences of refusal were worse than death for him and anyone else in that room.
Kai wondered, once again, what each of the Fallens thought. If they were truly content, believing Kyriel their god. If they even had a chance of free thought, given how absolutely the angel controlled them all.
“Welcome!” Kyriel’s voice was loud, magically amplified, when he addressed the crowd from the top of the dais and his throne. “Welcome, all.”
Kai kept his face composed, the boy summoning some feigned boredom to plaster on his features. A mask to hide his true feelings, when he felt the eyes of the fucker’s court hungry on him — Kyriel’s Council, who he saw almost every night, but other nobles who had only ever seen him scream at parties. And others, who Kai had terrified the last time he’d set foot in the Throne Room with a sword — those who had escaped the slaughter by running like cowards, that was.
The boy let a small smirk ghost the outline of his lips, satisfaction at the memory of how they had all screamed. He let them see a sliver of the predator, of the caged thing only tamed by Kyriel’s presence next to him.
He was going to kill them all one day, after all. He had sworn it.
“Today is a day of celebration,” Kyriel continued, the angel lifting his arms to address the crowd. “Yule, rejuvenation.”
There was a cheer, the rising of glasses from the Fallens in the hall at the words. Their clothes were splendid, crystal in their fine hands and hair — the contrast stark with the attire of the slaves standing almost invisibly at the sides of the room, dressed in rags and with trays of refreshment ready in their hands. Kai’s people, the boy always aware of them wherever he was.
“As you know, I have declared this day to be a holy one. To merge the recent traditions of the indigenous land with the more ancient immortal ones. To allow for the wisdom of the betters in our society to guide the hearty traditions of those who shall return to the mud.”
Kai felt a faint feeling of nausea rise into his gorge, the boy remaining expressionless and obedient at Kyriel’s side as he talked.
“But as much as it is my pleasure to celebrate this time with you all,” the angel smiled, and Kai’s hair rose behind his neck even though the angel had not looked at him yet, “there is another reason why I would like to command today as a day of celebration across all lands. Another cause for rejoicing and worship, for all.”
Kai braced as best as he could, four years of captivity having taught him not to expect anything good.
“Today it’s my prince’s birthday!” A pause, as a ripple of surprise run among the crowd. “And we shall celebrate as it demands his rank.”
More cheers, more celebrations suddenly so shrill they couldn’t be but forced ones. The crowd turned to look at each other, barely hidden surprise on their faces — howling their joy like perfect sycophants after a beat, loudly stomping their feet in the ground and clinking their cups around. For Kyriel’s court might walk around without a collar around their throats, but there were no doubts as to where the power lay in the room — Kai doubting, after he’d spent years killing their own on the other side of the battlefield, after he’d culled half of the court just a few years prior, than any of them held any love for him at all. The boy too stunned by Kyriel’s words to react as the false cheers washed over him, the crowd crying out as one.
Today, notably, wasn’t his birthday at all.
“Now.” Kyriel smirked, rising his voice to be heard above the crowd, “I too have a present from my pupil. A present to welcome him back at court, after he proved himself to be civilised enough for it now.” He smirked again, raising a hand. “A word of warning, though. He is allowed to bite back if attacked.”
There was an uneasy ripple of laughter, the court shifting as they all remembered what exactly Kai was capable of.
Kyriel snapped his fingers, Kai’s runes blazing under his clothes.
“On your knees, love.”
And perhaps there was some kernel of truth in the angel’s words when he’d said Kai had proved himself to be civilised enough to be brought out at court, for the boy didn’t even think about digging his heels and try to resist the command this time around. And why should he, when Kai had violently tested the boundaries of his constraints enough times already, and with them faced the painful consequences of refusal? The boy chose to keep his dignity about him, obeying without a sound — only kneeling with deliberate slowness over the marble floor at Kyriel’s feet, taking all the time he could without looking like he was frustrating the command.
There was no choice. No battle to be had, when Kyriel gave him a direct command.
The boy closed his hands into fists, the chill of the marble floor seeping into his knees. He lifted his head up to spy his master from under his lashes, trying not to show the apprehension he felt in his gut.
His stomach flipped, Kyriel looking at him with an all too fond smile. One of those that promised violence — the violence of when he was proud.
“My gift to my prince.”
The angel lifted his hands, familiar darkness beginning to form in between his fingers with the thunderous sound of clashing storms. Sparkles shone from deep inside the dark, like thunders contained into his hands — the summoned mass twisting and shuddering as if it held within itself the multitude of a roaring universe. Kyriel moulding it and shaping it to the startled awe of his court, the strength of his magic such that they all took at least half a step back — Kai, too, wincing where he knelt at the angel’s feet, but knowing better than to inch away or flinch.
It was a beautiful thing, savage and delicate at once, that Kyriel finally forged. A crown, made of glittering crystal of the same dark material of his throne, of the collar around Kai’s throat.
“A crown for a Prince.”
The cheers were genuine this time, Kai thought with faint lightheadedness, as the shouts of the crowd exploded through the hall as Kyriel placed the crown over his brow. The thing surprisingly light, solid and digging softly into his head where its shaper edges lay — the angel smiling down at him, Kai looking up surprised from where he knelt at his feet.
Part of him still braced for the moment when the runes would lit up around him, for his captor to make him scream.
“Happy Yule, love,” the angel murmured, softly, so that only he could hear among the cheers of the crowd. “Let’s start putting to use that popularity of yours. Let them worship you as my pupil, the silver prince came to save them all.” He winked at him. “It is a good idea indeed — to steal the bones of previous worship for our own. As part of my pantheon, that’s it.”
And Kai, even as it finally dawned on him that he might not be made to hurt this time around, as Kyriel took his hand in his and lifted him to his feet to the roaring cheers of the crowds, he dizzily realised what his captor had done. How he’d taken his birthday, made it into a public celebration — and in doing so stripped it from him, another piece of identify unceremonious taken away without mercy or care.
“Drinks! Drinks for all!”
Because Kyriel had made clear all along he’d use him as he saw fit, hadn’t he? And what was Kai’s history, a thing as small as his birth, if not something for him to mould and repurpose? As if it didn’t matter that it had been the day his mother had held him, the day he’d been loved by his family as he came into the world. As if the angel even knew their names, as if he cared.
“Drinks for my prince!”
Kai felt himself grow dizzy, the boy numbly accepting the gold cup Kyriel pushed into his hands. For he knew better than to refuse him, knew better how useless it would be to make a scene — even though there was a faint, roaring part of him that clamoured for him to scream.
Today was the winter solstice. And there was power in the day, for Kyriel to claim that his god-prince was born on the night of the rebirth of light. For him to make it a symbol of the conquest of the champion of the human lands, a nod to those who still resisted him and worshipped Kai. A sign, an inequivocabile political message only strengthen by religious lore, that their silver god was where he was meant to be — at Kyriel’s side, forever more.
Kai took a mechanical sip of the drink the angel had given him, the taste sweet on his lips. The crown dug into his brow, its weight unfamiliar on his neck as he watched the crowd begin to dance and sing at the bottom of the dais — Kyriel smiling happily next to him, towering on them all with his height alone.
“You are a bastard,” the boy murmured, unblinking and without changing expression an inch, voice so low that only the angel would hear among the celebration. “A fucking bastard.”
Kyriel didn’t blink either, the monster continuing to smile at his court as if nothing was wrong.
“Drink, Kai,” he ordered. “It’s Yule, and it wouldn’t do for the crown to fall on the floor because of the slap you’d deserve now.” He turned, the angel lifting his cup to Kai’s own. “I’ll straighten you out tonight. For now, relax.” He smirked. “It is your birthday, after all.”
And Kai, knowing all too well what would happen if he protested, if he too did what Kyriel would deserve in turn — if he lounged at him, closed his hands around his throat and choked him until he was no more — took a deep breath and allowed himself to drink from his cup. Deeply, gulp after gulp, the boy savouring the luxurious taste of champagne in his mouth.
It was his birthday indeed, after all.
“Huzzah,” the boy smiled, his tone sligly gasping when he emerged from his cup. Because fuck it, he might as well enjoy what was good of his captivity, since it wasn’t like he could get out of it. “Merry merry Yule, Magister.” He lifted his eyes, silver eyes shining in the Christmas lights. “May this year bring light to us all.”
They both knew, as Kyriel snorted and lifted his cup to Kai’s, that the boy’s smile promised death by a thousand cuts. That the twinkle in his eyes wasn’t joy, even though his kept his face perfectly composed — but hate, as cold and deep like the pit of hell itself.
The angel smiled, relishing the sight of his collared beast.
“Merry Yule indeed, pupil mine.” He leaned forward, softly placing a kiss to his cheeck. “And may you be as good as you have been for me this year.”
From the outside the building appeared warehouse-like in nature, a great industrial block that towers over the surrounding storefronts and expansive blacktop parking lots. Then there’s the lettering plastered high above the entrance. One Man’s Army.
Piers grimaced at the sight of busy cars populating the asphalt. From armored vehicles to family six-seaters, people walked in and out with excited smiles or satisfied grins. Few were the solemn faces. Piers felt exposed just standing by his car at a place like this.
He didn’t have a choice. The boss demanded it, and in all honest he were correct in the grand scheme of things. It would only be a matter of time until Piers or his team ran into an Embattled themselves.
Close calls of the past made it all the more important. Seeing how quick some of those things can run… Or how easy an entire team of trained mercenaries can become red sludge… Piers shuddered, finally closing his driver side door.
The cash felt heavy inside the rucksack on his back. He kept reminding himself that this was for the sake of everyone’s safety, and he only needed one. Whatever appeases the boss he guessed. Just pick one and you can leave this place A.S.A.P.
Retro video games awaited him back at base. He’ll hurry through this meticulous process, then speed his way out of town. Thinking about those pixelated maps didn’t smother the building guilt though.
Frigid air washed over him as the sliding doors stuttered open. Piers was met with a vast network of rooms, easy to access and even easier to keep watch on, reminding him of that old prison down south. Steel sets of stairs climbed up to various floors. Walls of thick glass separated most cells instead of iron bars. Near the back he spied a few rooms that held great and heavy doors, the only window for interested buyers being the slim rectangular of glass to spy through them.
Most of the ground floor was cluttered by cases of weaponry, armor, and medical equipment. Employees pranced around in various levels of tactical gear. They approached their potential customers with smug expressions, and eager gestures.
“Well well, don’t you look like an experienced man.” An older middle aged individual, hidden behind a military helmet and pair of sunglasses, nearly pounced Piers. “Whatcha looking for then? We’ve assortments of embattled here- The best around as you should know.”
Piercing through the brown tint of his sunglasses, an eager gaze fixated on the tattoos lining Piers’ upper arms. Piers attempted to shut all unnecessary questions down.
“I’m only buying to shut the ol’ boss up. Nothing fancy- And nothing unpredictable.”
Expectant glares located onto him. He heard the man give a low scoff, a semblance of a shit-eating grin pressing against the slick fabric the balaclava underneath the helm.
“Anything for Moors’ boy. C’mon! We’ll find something that suits your needs. Trust me we got something for everybody.” Flamboyant gestures directed Piers to follow. He heaved a sigh, scraping his boots against the entry mat, reluctantly starting after the salesman.
Immediately the man brought Piers up to the second floor. Doing his best to impress him, the employee rambled on explaining.
“I think you’ll find our embattled in sector H up to your standards. They’re of professional expectations; good on battlefields, undercover jobs, and going up against the well prepared enemy- Here’s one of our group containers. They make good watch buddies, get along good with other embattled and don’t require much stimulation. Commonly referred to as Couplets as most buy these guys in a pair or greater.”
On the other side of the glass sat a bunch of bored looking men, armored in moderate gear. Their “container” wasn’t big enough to accommodate the amount crammed into the room.
Most sat on the floor staring into the ceiling, walls, or one-sided glass. A few metal benches found every free spot occupied by a resting Couplet. In the back two mattresses transformed into a dogpile, as they fought for comfortable space to sleep.
The man continued, “Don’t worry about complaints, distracted attention spans, or banter. These guys are far less chatty than their cheaper counterparts.”
Piers stared at the blank stare on a particular sunken eyed Couplet, his head started to bow as the will to stay awake waned. After an annoyed look to the salesman, that was enough for them to move onto the next.
“Sharpshooters. They come in available in all genders.”
There was a string of thin but lengthy cells, similar to hallways, that housed restless embattled. Each anticipated work, practicing with daggers that had grown dull, foam targets that were long since torn to shreds.
One in particular stretched as if she could guess that costumers had moved their sights onto her. She plucked a blade out from underneath her bed, not a hesitation passing by as she succeed the bullseye.
“They are enthusiasts for the job. Crossbows, sniper rifles, pistols, whatever you give them, they’ll show off their precision-”
Piers already begun to walk away, shaking his head. The salesman hustled after him. He advised, “Alrighty sir, I’ll let you lead the way then.”
Each group and subject on sale proved more and more unworth it. He analyzed the hot headed Juggernauts, the efficient but unstable Killmongers, the way too eager Jackpots. Passing by the string of isolated embattled, selling the boss’ case to Piers was dwindling.
Each were either returned for their aggression, unpolished edges, or locked up for an inability to co-exists with the non-commanding staff. In one particular concrete chamber sat a juggernaut that refused to break from a set of push-ups. Piers wondered what kinds lives these people lived before becoming these… things.
“Here. Let’s go to the third floor. They’re expensive, can have quite the harsh modifications, but are worth every penny.”
He wasn’t lying about the mods. These embattled fashioned cybernetic upgrades. Ears were decorated by enhanced hearing implants. Promised technological feats were found in thin metallic markings, and stark ink.
Passing by a wall of glass that served a vibrant warning label, Piers got a knowing wink from the subject inside, the mechanical bladed imp tail attached to them winding in anticipation. He could’ve swore the glass was always one-sided.
“How about a Grand Medic? We have a few unique features of them, noted by these symbols here.” The man tapped at a key plastered to the viewing glass.
Modifications guaranteed aspects such as dedicated caretaking, duel-service, multilingual, familial devotion, intense reaction times, and even fearlessness.
The third floor cells were far more expensive, spacious, and… clean. Bunk beds provided enough opportunities to snooze for less crowded containment of extensively conditioned embattled. They had tables, entertainment in the form of puzzle trinkets, and also pillows.
The Grand Medics looked healthy and more right behind the eyes than most Piers had seen today. Their equipment was heavy duty, and each wore a different accent color, large patches on their arms telling onlookers what to expect.
Slips attached described factoids and notes on their behavior, specialties, and feats. They have names?! Piers admitted that they sure do look expensive.
Given no choice, he asked the salesman, “What’s the difference between the common medic and a grand?”
“Grand Medics are the best of both worlds. They can be your avid defender, skilled soldier, observant comrade, and best of all: a field surgeon if push comes to shove. Each are tested for high intelligence when selected to be Grand Medics. Their training is complex, ruthless, and especially strict. Very few make it to this level. We’ve never had a complaint after purchase from these guys though.”
“But I will tell you.” He continued, pointing back to the slips, “They can have some quirks that wealthy buyers might not be all intrigued by.”
Piers took his time reading and locating the corresponding embattled...
Languages: English, Portuguese, Spanish, Italian, French, and German.
Quirks: Melancholic. Compulsive. Hungering.
What does that mean? You know what I don’t want to know. Macarius refused to face the viewing glass, hunched over as if trying to hide something. Very obviously his hands cupped a granola bar that he was attempting to choke down...
Languages: English, Russian, Ukrainian, Kazakh, and Greek.
Quirks: High Maintenance, Advanced Sweet Tooth, Tactile.
Sweet tooth? It’s got to be bad if they enable it here. Paulinus chewed a large wad of gum. He tapped his foot to the beat of a song that no one else could hear...
Quiet, I like that. Constantine fidgeted with a fifteen sided puzzle cube. He twisted and turned the almost flimsy seeming contraption, suddenly coming out with a checkered pattern...
Languages: English, Spanish, French, Dutch, Swedish, and German.
Quirks: Obsessive. Aggressive. (Someone scribbled with a pencil Yandere next to the last word.)
Yeah… No. Valentin pressed a bored fist to the side of his jaw. He seemed to be watching something unfold in the imaginary stage set against the white walls...
“Any pique your interest?” The salesman smiled as if he knew he secured Piers, and there was no going back.
“How much is the red one?”
Returning to his car Piers carried one much lighter rucksack. His parents shunned the embattlement institutions, back when they turned murderers into murderers for hire. To this day he always found their existence evidence of humanity’s failing.
He mulled the entire car ride back to base, entering the establishment with his head hung low. His team and boss greeted him in the kitchen. The deep conversation they were carrying dispersed at the sound of the door clicking. They exchanged serious expressions in return of goody-goody ones.
“What’s the verdict? Hope you got us a reliable little friend.” An impossibly self-satisfied smirk beamed from the boss. He invited the others to listen closely. This would be their new team member and permanent assistant.
“A grand medic. Goes by the name Constantine. The guy at the warehouse said we’re happy to renamed him if we want though.”
“That sounds like a fitting name already.” One of his team mates piped up, leaning their chair back just enough to keep it from toppling over. He followed up, “When do we get to meet Mr. Cons-tan-tine?”
“Sunday.” Piers tossed thick packet of the embattled’s papers on the dining table. There was the sparkle of tears in his eyes, but his managed to hide it from them. He gave an awkward shrug, “There’s everything about him since you guys are so curious. I’m going to bed.”
As he left the group behind, the bossed called after him, “Chin up mate. You’ll be grateful during your next mission. Trust me.”
Haven long forgotten about the video games, Piers marched straight to his bed, plopping over and rolling around in his excessive blanket collection, as if the soft texture could wash away the tingling sensation of sins crawling across his skin.
He shuddered every time his mind wandered back to those barren cells. No one deserved… that. This Constantine fellow could be a serial killer in a past life, or a young boy who vanished from home decades ago.
Did it matter anymore? The rules for what determines if someone can be transformed into an embattled have been getting looser and looser. Piers wondered if he were imprisoned nowadays would he end up in the same boat, with greedy eyes secretly observing him. They’re inhuman now. He lied to himself.
Piers thrashed around until a sleeping position felt comfortable enough, succumbing to his depression fueled exhaustion. When he awoke, late morning sun highlight the dusty air of his bedroom, it was as if an audience focused on him.
He turned towards the paranoid sensation. A reactive scream emitted from him at the armored man standing in his doorway. He bumped himself up against the wall, still trying to scoot backwards for a few moments even as his shock started dying out.
The fear was replaced by red-faced anger. He shouted, “Marin!”, confident he knew who allowed this.
Snickering echoed down the hall, Marin’s voice amongst the hushed chattering. Constantine reacted to none of it. His white armor was more expensive than what he sat around in, still complimented by strays of vibrant red.
Now up so close he looked stronger than remembered, the definitions of his muscles revealing only in the less protective aspects of his gear. His eyes were visible too. Gray, unamused, yet engaged; they stared as if assigned to this task.
Marin cheerily entered Piers’ line of sight, leaning against the sturdy Constantine. He teased, “You’ve got good taste. The boss is impressed with Constantine, and I quite like him.”
“How long has he been watching me?”
“Oh don’t worry.” He gave a good few pats to Constantine’s shoulder, “His presence disturbed you only after a few minutes.”
Frustrated, Piers unraveled himself from bed, pushing past them both. He located the others standing by. With an accusatory point, he lectured, “Constantine is not a toy. Stop playing around, and keep that thing away from me outside of working hours.”
He stomped off, still feeling Constantine’s glare snapped onto him, following him down the hall. Hopefully the watching people while they sleep thing was some stupid gimmick command. Surely, they would’ve noted that down in the quirks at the warehouse. Outside- Piers just needed his fresh air time.
Outdoors, the sunlight was unwavering. The horizon wriggled uncomfortably underneath the aggressive heat. He glanced up too much catching a shot of blinding light to the eyes. What a summer. He took solace that it wasn’t freezing cold. Knowing what waltzed around the base disturbed more than expected by even the boss, and now the unforgiving sun was a positive notion in his day.
That light…
...
Ringing. That’s all that remained in Piers’ senses after the explosion, his body scraping against the rocky earth as if he brittle a tumbleweed caught in the wind.
The pain followed next, stinging and fresh. It enveloped his elbows, his writhing legs. And something hit him. At first he couldn’t feel or understand what it was. His head smacked against the ground too many times to come up with an idea of where he was and what surrounded him. Maybe it were a small rock or a-
He hissed, wincing and curling on himself. His chest shuddered at the sharp pain building within him. Breathing spurred into a wheezing-then-coughing fit, making it worse.
Somewhere the brutal sound of cracking raised up over the diluted ringing. Instantly, he understood that it didn’t originate from the chaotic world engulfing him. Frantic clawing at his chest raised his growing collection of questions.
Piers fell back over, his dizzied head swinging around the sky and ground in a vertigo induced display. He felt the shockwave of a more distance explosion. Familiar voices shouted, drowned by pops of gunfire.
“Cover me. I’m reloading.”
“Where’s Marin?”
“I’m hit. Fuck I think I’m hit.”
Looking down at his hands, Piers discovered them slick with blood. One by one the shooting halted. Next he understood, he was being manhandled, spun around, and a bright light was forced into his face. It swapped to his other eye. As the glaring luminance disappeared, Constantine’s red and white helmet faded into view. His stern irises shifted left and right.
“What the hell!”
Piers recognized that he didn’t like him, trying to free himself from the embattled’s grasp. The medic dragged him back into place. He shoved a warning pointed index finger in Piers’ face.
In a hurry Constantine pried off Piers’ bulletproof vest, a few of its shattered pieces breaking off. The open air stung the bleeding wound, the blood spurting as labored breathing flexed his chest in and out.
To the entire team’s horror, Constantine lowered his face to an almost kissing distance with Piers’ ribcage, sniffing in the iron-ridden scent of blood. Somehow that gave the medic enough knowledge to start rummaging around in the bag hanging off the side of his hip.
He parted the wound open a little more using surgical tools, ignoring how Piers clawed at his arms and begged for rescue. Bringing a magnet to the opening, he waved it about until a shard of metal ejected itself from the bloody slurry.
“Let go of me.” Piers cried, his ears ringing again despite the lack of new explosions. He tried to kick Constantine away.
Limping up to the scene, Marin’s face scrunched up with disgusted sympathy. He loomed over the two. Finally he scrounged up the courage to intrude, and asked, “Is he going to be okay?”
Without glancing away from his work, the embattled shook a small spray bottle, the solution inside sloshing and bubbling. He responded robotically, “Sure.”
“Sure?! Tell me it straight-”
“He has a TBI, a fractured rib, and a shrapnel wound.”
Piers continued to struggle against Constantine’s grip, as he sprayed the fluid inside the wound via generous washing. As if frustrated by squirming, Constantine’s glare begun to lift from the injury, his right eye twitching. Growing worried for Piers, Marin strained to a sit. He pounced on top of his colleague. There was a scramble to get a hold of his arms, but eventually successful, Constantine immediately refocused.
Packing the bleeding opening came next. A cloth was passed around before finding its way between Piers’ gritted teeth. He hissed muffled cries, his muscles straining in his team mate’s hands. Constantine dug his finger into the sliced skin, drawing gauze alongside it.
Much to the dismay of the watching team Piers freed one arm. He latched one hand onto the side of Constantine’s face, making incoherent claims about torture.
For a split-second they all assumed that Constantine was going for Piers’ throat, instead the embattled cupped his hands on the sides of Piers’ face.
He demeaned, “I. Am. Saving. Your. Life.”
Piers released a defeated noise, allowing Constantine to wrap up his chest. A sharp pinch in the unscathed sections of his chest turned the whole world heavy, his eyelids fluttering, warmth coating over him.
He watched the empty morphine injection pass through Constantine’s gloved fingers. Before falling into darkness he swore those gray eyes smiled at him, drinking up his helplessness.
The back door creaks open with a soft push, letting the warm hue of the evening sun spill into the hallway. The light paints long, golden strokes across the floor as you gesture to the bench outside.
You tell them to play outside and sunbathe.
Elliott steps out first, slowly, eyes darting around the small backyard. He treads cautiously on the wooden steps and reaches the bench, sitting stiffly on its edge. He keeps his hands on his knees, tense, and glances back at the house door like it's a lifeline. His leg begins to bounce.
Rashmi follows after him, tugging on his shirt to orient himself out, but instead of taking the bench, he lowers himself directly onto the patch of grass, wincing slightly but settling down carefully. He leans back, palms spread across the cool earth, face tilted toward the sun like a flower. His eyes don’t focus much, but he blinks slowly, soaking in the warmth, the breeze, the feel of crumbling leaves under his fingers. For the first time, he looks peaceful.
Elliott tries to sit still, but it doesn’t last. His shoulders twitch every time a bird chirps. He looks to the door. Then at you. Then at Rashmi. His lips part like he might say something, but nothing comes. After a long while, he stands up, paces, then sits again. His foot taps rapidly against the dirt.
After about thirty minutes, he finally walks up to where you're standing just inside the doorway.
“Um… Master?” he asks, eyes never quite meeting yours. “Can I go back inside now…?”
You give him a kind look, speaking gently. You tell him the sun is good for them and that they probably didn't have enough outdoor time at the shelter.
He blinks, fidgeting. “...There were no windows in our rooms,” he mutters. “Only when we were brought out for a few minutes.”
You nod. “Exactly. So I think it’s good to let your skin breathe and just… exist out here a while. Nothing’s going to happen. I promise.”
Elliott lowers his head and gives a small, rigid nod before turning back toward the bench. He doesn’t sit this time. He stands behind it, arms crossed over his chest, waiting.
The sun dips slowly lower, casting deeper shadows across the grass. Rashmi stays still on the ground, head tilted back and eyes fluttering half-closed. He shifts occasionally to feel the sun hit a different part of his face or to run his fingers through the grass like he’s committing the texture to memory.
Elliott remains on edge the entire time.
Eventually, an hour passes. You step outside and clap your hands gently. You tell them it's time to come in
Elliott doesn’t wait. The moment the words leave your mouth, he darts past you, slipping back inside without a word or glance at Rashmi. The brunette notices it, but Elliot left so quickly and he hadn't even gotten up.
Rashmi flinches at the sound. “...Already?” he asks quietly, not hiding the disappointment in his tone. He lingers in place for a second longer before slowly standing. He brushes grass from his clothes, his gaze unfocused as he tries to orient himself.
“Here,” you say, stepping toward him. “This way.”
He reaches for your voice. You gently guide him by the arm. He’s light and quiet, his bare feet brushing softly across the ground. He walks carefully, trusting your hand, though his expression is unreadable.
Once inside, he pauses in the hallway, taking a second to listen to the house.
You close the door behind him and speak softly, asking if he is alright.
He nods, just once.
Elliott is nowhere in sight.
What will you do now?
wait for Elliot to come back and do something else.
"It's not your fault," said to Whumpee is cool and all.
But what if it's said by Whumpee as they slowly bleed? To Whumper?
Are they saying it to stop the torture? To avoid further punishment? Do they see Whumper overwhelmed with guilt and know it would turn into anger that would make their life so much worse? Have they already experienced it? Do they accept the words as what they need to say to survive, even as they feel like bile on their tongue?
«Whumper was a disgusting, insane person with mood swings bigger than anything Whumpee had ever seen. They could go from apathy to fury, from crying pitifully to throwing plates around and at Whumpee in a matter of seconds. Whumpee had to learn and adapt, tip-toeing around their sensibilities and struggling to find the right words to pacify them.
The thing they hated most, though, was when Whumper cried about them.
"I treat you so awfully, you would have already left if you had the chance," they sobbed out.
Whumpee's blood always boiled at that. 'Of course!' they wanted to scream. They did, the first few times. It only worked to make them pick up the whip all over again. "It's not your fault," they say instead now.
"Will you stay with me forever?" Whumper fishes for more kind words, tears glistening wetly. "Do you love me?"
"...I do," they lie.»
Or do they believe it? Do they blame themself for their own suffering? Do they think they've done something so wrong they deserved to be hurt? Was it years of conditioning that led them there? Is Whumper someone they loved? A friend? Family? Someone they trust enough to accept the punishment as something they earned?
«"I'm so sorry for hurting you like this," Whumper sobs, and Whumpee is overwhelmed with shame and guilt more painful than the still bleeding wound they're trying to close. Whumper had provided them with shelter and food, spent so much effort trying to make them good even as they failed over and over. They deserved a better pet.
"It's not your fault," they whisper and feel tears burn their eyes. They hug Whumper, careful to keep blood away from their clothing. They hate blood so much, after all. If only Whumpee was good enough to never force their hand like this.»
Are they a child, brought up so used to rules and punishments, hearing their parent cry so often they know it's the cue for them to burst with shame? I know personally how a child young enough would beg to be punished before blaming their parents for the way they are treated. Perhaps, Whumpee has never known better. Perhaps, in the world they live in, around the people who are everything to them, it is their fault.
«Seeing Mommy cry was the worst thing in the world. It made Whumpee feel like crying too, crying even harder, their heart feeling like it would burst at any second. They pulled in without hesitation, shaking from the desperation to make it better. "It's not your fault," they pleaded. "I'm sorry for being such a bad child today."
They belatedly realized their blood was staining Mommy's clothes when they pressed in like this.»
I love a whumper that hems and haws about how, well, they don’t really want to hurt whumpee but it’s a punishment and how else will they learn how to behave if they’re allowed to do whatever they’d like without consequences?
If whumpee does anything from trying to escape, to name calling, maybe even just being a bit sarcastic, anything whumper doesn’t approve of, it’s just pain in store for them. Even struggling during their punishments can get them in trouble, depending on whumper’s mood
Whumpee is on edge, not ever really sure what whumper’s limits are sometimes. And that cold dread that settles in their stomach when whumper gives them that disappointed look and sighs.
And maybe one day, whumpee just gives up. They don’t struggle against their bonds, they don’t plead for the pain to end, they hardly even cry out. Once it’s all over, whumper smiles and strokes their cheek. Isn’t it so much nicer when they can behave properly?
