i wanted to introduce each arc before continuing on with the present arc. i'll probably pop all over the place chronologically since that's how i write best!
here's 1's first day alive, though that wasn't his name at the time.
-
Cyrus opened his eyes for the very first time.
He was in a room in a house or apartment. It may have been his first moment of conscious thought, but he was not a human, and he was certainly not a baby. He was still in his box, he realized: he climbed out of it, brushing himself off, smoothing out the wrinkles in the disappointingly plain clothes he came dressed in. There was a man there, taking a step back. Probably the one who had turned him on.
The first strong opinion he ever had was that he was unequivocally better than the nervous man standing in front of him.
Luan, his mind supplied. His… owner’s name was Luan. He didn’t like that word, owner. It felt incongruous. Wrong. He wasn’t something to be owned, Cyrus knew that for sure. If anything, he should be the one doing the owning.
At the same time, he knew exactly what he was: a Catharsis Therapy Bot™. An expensive object to be bought and sold. A thing to act as programmed and be beaten until its owner felt better.
Cyrus frowned. That couldn’t be right at all. The only thing that felt right about any of that was that he was expensive.
“Cyrus?” Luan asked, apprehension evident in every twitch of his body. He winced immediately, like the name itself had hurt him. Pathetic.
Oh, there was no way this sniveling loser was his owner.
He found that his face moved automatically, parts shifting to match his expression to his intent as he looked on disapprovingly. “I’m better than you. This isn’t right.”
Luan’s eyes went wide for only a moment before he scowled right back. “You don’t like it when the shoe’s on the other foot, huh? Too fucking bad. You’re mine this time.”
Cyrus tried to search for what Luan meant, but he came up empty. Luan hadn’t supplied him with information on their history. On his history with… the other Cyrus.
But he didn’t need it. Luan was making it obvious enough for him to know exactly what to do and say, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“So you were mine before. That makes sense, that’s where you belong.” Cyrus stepped forward and patted him on the cheek with a smirk.
Luan flinched. “Don’t touch me.”
“You’re in no place to tell me what to do.” Cyrus tried to poke him in the chest to make his point.
His arm did not move.
Again, he tried, and again, nothing. Experimentally, he lifted his arm without intent to touch Luan: no issue.
He wasn’t smirking anymore.
“Oh, I think I am.” Luan pushed him hard, sending him tumbling to the floor.
Cyrus fell just next to the box, the sensors inside his skin lighting up with pain wherever he made impact–it hurt. He was sturdy, he had to be, but heavy with metal that pinched his skin. He sucked in air he didn’t need by instinct, a useless humanlike reaction he immediately found annoying, just to tint it a little worse.
Something was bubbling up inside him, and he did not like it.
“You do not fucking touch me!” he screamed, his voice shrill out of the speaker down his throat as he pushed himself back to his feet. “How dare you!? You pathetic coward! You don’t deserve to own something– someone like me, let alone… push me! You are beneath me. You are fucking nothing. You–”
Luan’s fist cracked against his cheek. He didn’t go down this time, only stumbled, but it hurt worse than the fall. He didn’t think anything could hurt worse than that. He hadn’t felt anything before. His hands went to protect his aching cheek, the words almost knocked out of him with the shock of it, but he found his place again soon enough. “You–”
“Shut up.”
Cyrus’s volume dropped straight to zero, and he found that he no longer possessed the ability to raise it.
That thing bubbling up in him only intensified, and this time it came with a pathetic urge to back away and submit. Obviously, something he would never indulge.
He glared at Luan with what he hoped was enough pointed hate to make himself clear without words.
“You don’t get to talk to me like that anymore!” Luan hissed, rubbing his knuckles. “You’re not in charge this time! You’re the one who has to listen to what I say! You’re the one who has to take it!”
He pushed Cyrus again, harder. He fell like a stone, tripping over his box this time. He was almost glad his voice was cut, because otherwise, he would have cried out, another annoying reflex programmed to make him seem more human. Weaker, more pitiful. It was infuriating.
Water began leaking from his eyes, blurring his lenses. No, no, this wasn’t who he was. He was supposed to be the powerful one.
Luan stared at his own hands like an easily-impressed child. With every moment, Cyrus only hated him more.
He started to push himself up again, but all Luan had to say was “Stay down,” and Cyrus couldn’t do that anymore, either.
Luan grabbed him by the shirt collar. “And I don’t have to take your shit ever again. What do you have to say for yourself? Speak.”
Not only could Cyrus speak now, he couldn’t remain silent if he tried. “I hate you.”
Luan laughed, dry and joyless. “Good. Feeling’s mutual.” He let go. “You know what you’re for, right?”
“I…” Of course he knew. “Something’s wrong.”
“This is the first time it’s ever been right!” Luan corrected. His hands were shaking. Water leaked from his eyes too, Cyrus realized.
“You’re scared of me,” he put together. “You’re scared of a robot you ordered! Ha! At least some part of you knows your place.”
“Shut up!” Just as he stole Cyrus’s voice away again, Luan landed a kick in his abdomen. It was worse than the punch, a sharp sensation hitting him hard, and just like last time, he didn’t realize anything could be worse.
The terror bubbling up in him couldn’t be denied anymore. How much worse could it get? He’d only been alive for five minutes and it was already this bad.
“You know what?” Luan cut in. “This really is cathartic.”
Footsteps on the stairs. The door creaked open. A stranger appeared, eyes wide with horror.
His gaze turned gentle as he met the captive’s eyes. “We’ll get you out of here.”
“I knew someone would come for me,” the captive rasped. “I told him.”
“Don’t try to talk.” The stranger’s gentle hands undid the bloody ropes. The captive let himself slump into the stranger’s arms.
Upstairs, a man watched the camera feed, smiling. When the captive’s “rescuer” turned on him, it would break the last of his will. Then the real fun could begin.
Their pet knelt next to an overturned flowerpot, tears already welling up in their eyes. Nothing was broken except for the plant's delicate leaves, and the dirt on the floor would take mere moments to clean up.
But Whumper had nothing to do this afternoon. And their pet looked so enticing when they were afriad.
"What happened here, Whumpee?" They asked, tone dark and stern.
"I-I'm sorry sir, I m-made a mistake-"
"And you didn't even bother to clean it? What, are you expecting me to fix your mistake?"
Their eyes widened in terror. "N-no sir, I just... last time I cleaned up a mistake, you said I was trying to hid-"
"And now you're talking back? You really must want to be punished, Whumpee, is that what it is? Are you getting bored of my kind treatment?"
"No-," they gasped, "No sir I don't... I'm no-"
"So you think you don't deserve punishment? You think you deserve my forgiveness?"
"I-I... I don't-" they sobbed, searching for something, anything to say.
Whumper sighed again, pinching the bridge of their nose. "In the basement, Whumpee. Now. Or I'll double the punishment you've already earned yourself."
Whumpee swallowed their words and got shakily to their feet. They padded over to the basement door, wiping their tears as they went.
They could never do anything right. Not for Whumper.
Whumper likes to play a game called guess the torture where whumper tortures whumpee A behind a closed curtain/ out of view from whumpee B and makes Whumpee B guess how whumpee A is being tortured. Whumper doesn’t stop the torture until whumpee B can guess properly and if they don’t guess whumpee B gets tortured next in the same way.
I am using a fairly loose interpretation of @whumpmasinjuly Day 9 prompt, by which I mean that I consider conditioning a form of playing mind games with whumpee.
This is a continuation of Embers and Shards, my spin-off, or so to speak, of Sun and Glass by @whumpflash which I have kindly been allowed to write!
The initial installment, linked here dealt with a precursor to Rena’s arrival.
This one is Rena’s first chapter in Sun and Glass from Caelon’s PoV.
Tagging @whumpwillow (I remember you liked the first part and asked to be tagged) and @whumpmasinjuly-archive with @dreamer-in-sleep
Story under the cut, with trigger warnings of slavery, conditioning, implied non-con, physical punishment, anxiety.
2. Questions and Uncertainties
He does his best to keep his head down, gaze on the floor, in front of the new lady, Master’s guest. Her eyes find him nonetheless. He has learnt to read people’s eyes by now. She is excited, amused, at the state he is in.
Excited has never boded well for him, especially with ladies. They would…they would…she is speaking to Master, trading courtesies. He pauses, trying to get a better measure of the lady.
“Back to work,” snaps Master. He cannot stop the flinch at the tone. The lady is looking at him again, eying him head to toe. It takes all his will to not shy away from her eyes, to simply go back to work, but he manages to.
What do his thoughts matter for in the end, regardless? They are without substance, as they have always been.
Without substance they may be, but they serve to bring his attention to his exhaustion, and he stumbles, the heavy trunk falling from his shaky hands.
He tenses, bracing for the inevitable punishment, Master’s warning resounding in his mind. Master had known he would be sloppy.
He tries to reduce the mess, to reduce the magnitude of his error, but of course Master has already seen his sloppiness.
He just holds himself still when he hears Master’s footsteps. If there is one thing he has learnt to some extent, it is the way a punishment is taken. “How dare you make such a fool of me? I had told you time and again that you are to respect my guest. Is this what you call respect? If you presume to disrespect my guest, you will pay for it later.”
He wants to say that he’d never dare presume anything, but he knows that his Master does not want him to reply, so he obeys the implicit order too. It’s all he can do.
Master’s hand expansively gestures to him. “You see? This is exactly the sort of behaviour I meant.”
Tired, resigned fear rises him in anew. Doubtless, he will be punished worse. That is what happens, when Masters talk about such a thing as him.
“With all due respect my lord,” the lady says, her eyes still roving on him, “it doesn’t seem to be his fault. Accidents happen.”
Master gives the reply he has taught the slave by now, what to expect. Sleepless, hungry days and nights. He hates that the carelessness cannot be beaten out of him, or forced out of him. He does not want to be careless, or in pain.
He stumbles his way to the lady’s chambers, all other servants moving hurriedly out of his way. None of them ever talk to him, too afraid of invoking Master’s ire. When he enters her chambers, she makes to touch him, and he barely manages to stagger back and keep his balance. He knows what women want out of him. He cannot bear that pain on top of Master’s punishments.
Whatever the lady might want from him, her rank must be respected, so he apologises, unable to keep the stutter from his voice, his head kept steadfastly bowed.
“Wait.” Somewhere, her quiet, clear command is expected for him. The women always want to take a closer look at him. And she does exactly what he thinks she would, her eyes lingering on his face, his eyes, his dirty hair. He has to force himself to stillness, knowing what is coming.
“Look at me.” Prepared for something else, her subsequent comment takes him off guard. He manages to look at her nonetheless. Perhaps she wants to see his eyes better. Perhaps she wants to see the regret in his eyes when he apologises to her. He had not apologised properly, perhaps.
So he tries anew. “M-My lady, I’m sorry. That trunk”-
Her hand swipes near his face, and he flinches back, too afraid to pay attention to her words. She sighs, and he understands that she is displeased. He makes greater effort to pay attention to her words.
Her next question is far too unexpected for him to answer correctly, for she asks him his name.
He stutters through whatever names he remembers, before he manages to clarify that Master hasn’t named him yet. Somehow that reminds him of his unworthiness, and so he stutters more apologies. They like to hear apologies.
This lady sounds displeased, though. “Calm down,” she commands forcefully. Perhaps his voice displeased her. He has met nobles like those, before.
So he forces his mouth shut, holding still as he could for the inevitable punishment.
She does not punish him. Is that what the Master meant by strange?
Instead, she asks another question.
“Caelon,”she asks, her voice soft, the word unfamiliar. Is that what her people call a slave? “Do you know who I am?”
Heart in his throat, he tries to think, to answer correctly. He cannot recognize her, though. All he can think of are the women who would come in the night, before, to take their pleasure of him. He does not think she would appreciate being told that.
So he tells her what truth he could, shaking his head as firmly as he knows how. “My lady,I…can’t. I’m sorry, I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I know I’m not good for anything, please”- In his jumbled thoughts, he finds the desperation to plead. He does not think he can stand through more punishment.
Somehow, she takes mercy on him. “It’s fine,”she says, voice soft and curiously blank. “You can go.”
(this takes place prior to Uilebheist A Rinn An Duine, where Ruaridh is just a little bit younger and human :3)
“You shouldn't believe everything he says to you, dear.”
009 only hummed in reply, toying with the hem of their shirt as Derwyn methodically brushed a comb through their hair. Long, glossy and a gorgeous black; Derwyn had always liked their hair, adoring how soft the locks were. Derwyn continued, “After all, for all you know, he could be tricking you. He might be pretending to be your friend entirely.”
“But he takes care of me. Like you.”
Derwyn chuckled. “Really?”
“Yeah,” 009 turned to face them, twirling a slender finger around a lock of their hair. “He— He taught me to speak.”
“So did I.”
“Yeah, but he taught me.. a bunch of other words, and what they mean. He taught me to read, and that's, like, my favourite thing now.” Turning their head back to the opposite wall, 009 slumped. “He's nice. Why don't you like him?”
“It's not that I don't like him; if I didn't like him, I wouldn't let you visit each other. I respect that he's tutoring you, I think it's a wonderful thing to do.” Even then, Derwyn's mouth twisted in distaste as she spoke. “What I don't like is his way of teaching. His views. The way he tries to put things into your head.”
There was a pause in the conversation, as 009 frowned and their eyes lingered on the pile of books they'd gotten over the years. Each one was focused on flora or fauna, of a mysterious place called Earth.
Earth. What a wonderful name for a place they'd never seen before.
“What things?”
Derwyn smiled, tucking a strand of 009’s hair out of their face and behind their ear. “Things about that silly world he used to live in. Do you really believe that there's a place outside this lab?”
“I mean…” 009 swallowed. “There might be. I keep hearing stuff. From— From the ceiling. Pattering. He— He says it's raining when that happens.”
The scientist just chuckled. “You're so naive, ‘09. It's just mind games. Silly little lies, y'know? You believe them awfully well.”
“...He's jus’ very believable.”
Derwyn smiled, circling around to be face-to-face with her dear subject. “It's not a bad thing, dear. It just shows your trust in him. I'm concerned about whether or not you should trust him.” She crouched down with a smile. “For all you know, that ‘world’ out there could be horrible. Disgusting, filthy. People out there will do horrible things to you without my protection. They'll hurt you, and exploit you, and hunt you down for sport. You don't want that, do you?”
“No.”
“Exactly.” She whispered, but 009’s expression didn't convey the emotion they wanted from her. “I'm not trying to scare you. I'm just letting you know that I can't let you out there. It's dangerous out there…”
“...And I'm safe with you.”
“Yes, that's right.” Placing a gloved hand on the subject’s head, smoothing her thumb over the locks in a soothing, single motion. “You don't need to worry, dear. The rain, the people, they can't get to you here. You're fine here, perfectly fine, like you always have been.”
“What about what Carlisle says?”
“His name isn't Carlisle, it's 013.” She chided gently. “Anyway. Just.. humour him, for me. What he's saying isn't real, you should know that. You can read your silly little flower books, and forget about what's beyond these walls. Can you do that for me?”
When she was met with a nod, Derwyn patted their head. “Thank you, dear.”
Carewhumper gives Whumpee something to bond with and threatens to take it away whenever Whumpee disobeys.
Whumper randomly laces Whumpee's water with drugs, making Whumpee wary of drinking it even to the point of dehydration.
Whumper keeps Whumpee in isolation from the moment of capture, speaking to them only through a speaker, and eventually convinces Whumpee that they are a voice in their head.
Whumper only hurts whumpee when in a mask, and caretakes them afterwards without it. Whumpee knows whumper is the same person that takes care of them, but whumper insists they aren't, and to not say anything in case the others think whumpee is insane.
Whumper feigned surprise in response to Whumpee’s real surprise. “Caretaker didn’t tell you? That seems a bit uncaring.”
Uncaringness had nothing real to do with it, of course, but Whumper was cunning. They knew how a well-placed “casual” remark could plant an idea, and how an idea could lead to a bigger change.
“I—I’m sure it was just a mistake, right?” Whumpee stammered.
Whumper worried a look of disbelief could be too obvious. Instead they put on an expression of thinly veiled discomfort, as if they were trying to hide their thoughts from Whumpee to spare their feelings. “Um…yeah, I bet it was.”
The deception did its job, and doubt filled Whumpee’s eyes. Soon Whumper would have both Whumpee and Caretaker turned entirely against each other.
