#ailesswhumptober2024Day1

[auroragehenna]

AI-less Whumptober

Day 1 Torture Tuesday (Public torture/public use, stress position, “If you cry, we’ll go easy on you.”)

TW/CW: Generic character, public torture, public humiliation, medival torture, small nausea-adjacent talk, collar, Word count: 531

The way to their punishment was nearly worse than whatever would await them. The townspeople stood and laughed. Scorned and spit at them. As if any of them were any better! They were just to afraid or didn't get caught!

But his anger didn't help him here and frankly it barely made it throught the building fog of dread and shame.

The guards roughly pulled the length of chain attatched to the rough metal collar around the thieves neck. They had arrived at the 'Trülle'. A narrow metal barred cage, barely large enough for a teenager to stand upright in it, less alone an adult. Before Whumpee could protest they were already pushed into the already opened cage and locked in.

Even for their starved and malnourished frame it was too small, they could only stand cramped and coweringly. The laughter of the people around them only seemed to increase. Spit and rotten food came flying at them and this time they had no way of backing away from it. It burned just as much as their scorn and taunts. And all of this just for a little money and food. This wasn't fair! Why?

Just when they thought it couldn't get worse a guard stretched out their gloved hand and gave the 'Tülle' a hard push. Making it spin fast as a result. Instantly Whumpee felt nauseous, their empty stomach turning inside out. They lost orientation so caged in between metal and the laughter of the people. Their breath quickened between wretches until they were hyperventilating.

But as quick as the spinning started it stopped. Disorientating and sudden.

"Aww, already so done? And you thought you had it was took to steal from the royal family. You're pathetic!". They picked up their lance and shoved the tip through the bars, cutting the thief's cowering form.

Whumpee screamed as the rusty lance cut them bloody. Pain and shock mingling in their vocal cords. The crowd cheered. Tears welled up in their eyes.

"Aww, come on now. Already cyring?" They tutted. "Maybe you should have thought of this before trying to steal." They cut their leg open that time. "Tell you what; If you cry, we'll go easy on you. That's all you have to do, just cry for us. Show them that you're not some masterthief but just some poor, pathetic, little runt. And then we won't have to punish them too in the future. What do you think?"s

If even possible at this angle whumpee's head fell even lower than before. Their eyes downcast-they couldn't look at the guards. At the people around them. It would have been more mericful if they simply cut off their hand. Their pride...what was even left of it? It wasn't worth trying to salvage the broken pieces of it. A single tear rolled down their cheek. Then another. It wouldn't stop until they were shaking from the strain of their body, bleeding and sobbing.

The guards laughed and cooed but they held their word. No spinning or cutting, they simply let them to suffer in the cage and get violated by the crowd. Until they eventually lost conciousness and got dragged to the dungeon.

Taglist: @ailesswhumptober, @yourlocalgaefae33, @bisexuawolfsalt, @greatkittencloud, @princessofhe11,

[whumpninja]

The first of many completely random and nonsensical short bits for my lazy Whumptober!

Prompt used: AI-less Whumptober, “public torture/public use” and “stress position”

Featuring: historical whump-ish, environmental whump, whumper POV

Whumptober Day One: The Tyrant

A storm had battered the fortress all night, and when morning finally dawned, it dawned cloudy and grey. More than the usual chill hung in the salty sea air, and the tyrant drew his heavy cloak closer around him as the wind whirled over the top of the wall he stood on.

The tyrant gazed out over the stretch of coastline as far as he could see. It belonged to him, all of it, and in a dozen years there had never been anyone to challenge him for it. He ruled absolute, alone in his little self-made kingdom, reigning over a small army of soldiers and a few tiny villages along the shoreline. The villagers paid their heavy tributes, the tyrant protected them from any pirates who might sail by (though none ever had) and everyone was happy. So long as no one tried to upset the order of things, the little kingdom by the sea ran well.

But every so often there would be a troublemaker. It was to be expected; there were always hotheads and rabble-rousers and those who thought too much. The tyrant did not mind. He would watch them for awhile whenever they sprang up. Often, they simply faded back into their meaningless lives once their moment of notoriety petered out. It was only a very few that were deemed true trouble.

The tyrant had ways to get rid of trouble.

There had been one of those troublemakers the past few weeks. This one hadn't merely protested in the streets. He'd tried to set fire to the tyrant's fortress. That had made the tyrant take notice, and he'd sent the guards to arrest the young fool. The guards had come back battered, bruised, and empty-handed.

The tyrant had begun to worry then.

He'd sent more guards, and by the time these ones had managed to wrestle the mischief maker into the fortress, the tyrant was well and truly unnerved. The rebel turned out to be a mere stranger who'd been passing through and taken it into his head to dethrone the local lord before continuing on his way.

The tyrant had decided that this one would have to be gotten rid of.

Last night's storm had likely done much of the work for him. The tyrant left his fortress, strolling along the beach with only two guards accompanying him. Seagulls screamed over his head, and the sound of the waves crashing on the shore brought a twist to his lips. The tides were at their highest this season, although it was low tide now. Even the sea seemed to bow to what the tyrant commanded.

The tyrant's boots left wet marks in the sand as he strode out to the pair of heavy wooden stakes that had been sunk into the ground a fair ways out from the tide line. The soldiers, when they had installed them, had guessed that the sea would come halfway up the wooden pikes. But the tides varied- some days the poles were nearly awash, others they were barely wet. The tyrant couldn't find it in him to care very much. Especially after a storm.

The stranger, like a half dozen other fools before him, had been strung out between the stakes, tied with his body in a wide X. From the darkness of the wood, the sea must have been up to his chest last night. And the storm had pummeled the helpless figure- into senselessness or death, the tyrant couldn't tell which.

He stopped a few yards from the stakes, where his boots were just beginning to be wetted. "Are you alive?" he called to the prisoner, laughing.

There was no response from the slumped form.

The tyrant smirked. "If you are still alive, then how does it feel? Knowing that you'll die for absolutely nothing?" He folded his arms. "Those villagers you tried to stir up against me are eating out of my hand again. You had no effect on them, young 'n. Not a spark of rebellion took hold that wasn't doused by the sea and the storm."

He thought he saw a slight motion from the prisoner, so he continued. "You'll stay out there until you're bones, d'you hear? I don't take kindly to insurrectionists. You might have gone your way peacefully, but you simply had to intervene. Well, it all went for nothing, didn't it? You're a fighter, I could see it in your eyes. Try to fight the sea." The tyrant laughed aloud. "It'll be as useless as fighting me, but you're welcome to try. You can-"

And then, he stopped.

The prisoner had raised his head.

He was smiling. Smiling in a way that said he had never been afraid in his life and he did not intend to start now. Smiling in a way that was more a challenge than anything he had yet done. Smiling in a way that dripped with defiance. The prisoner stood, bound and helpless, drenched with rain and waves, and he smiled.

The tyrant stared, open-mouthed. Then, without a word of explanation to his stunned guards, he turned tail and fled back in the direction of his fortress.

Behind him, the prisoner's mocking laughter echoed in the sea breeze.

[teine-mallaichte]

Day 1 @ailesswhumptober - public torture/stress position

Asset 48 is accused of insubordination and used as a "lesson".

CW: torture, public torture, living weapon, dehuminisation.

AiLessWhumptober List Complex 27

The midday sun beat relentlessly down on the northern training yard of Complex 27, casting harsh, angular shadows across the rows of assembled assets. Standing in rigid formation, faces blank, eyes locked forward, their posture disciplined and mechanical. At the centre of the yard, a raised platform loomed, a stark reminder of what awaited any who were seen to defy the Facility.

A metallic sound slicing through the eerie silence, pulling every asset's attention to the impending spectacle. The clang echoed off the concrete walls as several handlers approached the platform, chains rattling in their hands.

"Asset 48. Step forward." Sergeant Kerr's voice cracked through the yard like a whip, cold and indifferent.

Ben caught a fleeting glance from Paul standing next to him, a flash of concern in his friend's eyes, an unspoken bond that made Ben feel less alone for a brief moment. He  broke from the formation without hesitation, each step heavy with purpose. He could feel the eyes of his fellow assets on him, they all knew what was coming.

Focus. Don’t show weakness, he told himself, even as his heart raced.

“Insubordination,” they had called it.His refusal to follow a direct order during yesterday’s drill - enough to warrant this public correction.

A message had to be sent. One that would linger, not just in his mind, but in the eyes of every asset forced to watch.

“On your knees,” Kerr ordered, his voice indifferent, as though this were merely another routine part of a normal day.

Ben complied, dropping to his knees, the impact sending a jolt of pain up his legs. He focused on the physical sensation of the concrete, grounding himself as the cold steel of the chains quickly wrapped around his wrists and ankles, binding him in place. Kerr’s voice continued in the background, but Ben had tuned it out. Listening wouldn’t change anything; it wouldn’t ease the inevitable.

Two guards stepped forward with a long metal pole, forcing his arms behind him. They wrenched his limbs into an unnatural position, pulling them high above his back until his shoulders strained under the pressure. Ben could feel his muscles tighten, the ligaments protesting as his body was folded forward, bent at the waist, his chest nearly touching his knees. The pole was locked into place, and with it, the slow, methodical torture began.

A fire ignited within his muscles almost instantly. Stay still. Don’t let them see you struggle. The ache spread, relentless and consuming. Breathe through it. Breathe.

Ben gritted his teeth. Breath shallow. Every inhale burned. The sun beat down, relentless. Too hot. His shoulders - God, his shoulders. Like fire, searing, spreading. He tried to shift, just a fraction, but the chains bit deeper. More pain. Worse pain. Muscles trembling now, quivering. His breath hitched - too fast, too shallow.

Hold on.

His body screamed for release, a primal instinct clawing at his mind, but he would not give them that satisfaction, not now, not yet.

Not ever.

Sergeant Kerr paced slowly around the platform, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes never leaving Ben’s contorted form. His voice, low and deliberate, carried across the yard. “Insubordination will never be tolerated. None of you are exempt.”

His words were aimed at the assembled assets, though none dared meet his gaze. Ben caught a glance at them, all stood like statues, eyes forward, , faces impassive.  They were absorbing the lesson in silence. Each one knew that it could just as easily be them on the platform tomorrow.

Ben was just a warning, a cautionary tale.

Sergeant Kerr finally came to a stop in front of Ben, crouching down just enough so his voice could reach him without the others hearing. “You’re holding out well, Asset 48,” he muttered. “But I wonder how long it will be before you give in.”

Ben didn’t respond. His jaw clenched, breath ragged but controlled. He wouldn’t speak. He wouldn’t cry out. Whatever Kerr was waiting for, he wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

With a small, almost imperceptible smirk, Kerr straightened and turned away, addressing the assets once more. “Remember this moment. This is what happens when you disobey. There is no leniency here. No mercy.”

Great. Just what I needed, another lesson in ‘how much more can I take.’ Kerr should be proud. His prize frontliner, reduced to nothing but a lesson. Muscles trembling uncontrollably, arms numb, his weakness on display for all to see.

I can't give in. I can’t let them win.

The weight of everyone’s eyes. He couldn’t see them - he didn’t need to. He could feel them. A hundred silent judgments. His fellow assets, watching, learning. Kerr’s eyes, calculating, predatory. And Paul... Paul standing so close yet unreachable, fists clenched at his sides, powerless to intervene.

I won’t break. I won’t become another lesson.

Stay strong.

He wouldn’t break.

Breathe. Just breathe.

The command, once so clear, now felt distant. His breath came faster, shallow and ragged, slipping out of his control. He gritted his teeth, trying to block out the burning sensation in his lungs, but even that was failing. The pain radiated through every fiber of his being, a relentless tide eroding his willpower.

I can’t. I—

His thoughts stumbled over themselves, faltering. For the first time, an unshakable truth pressed at the edges of his consciousness. He was going to break. He could feel it, an inevitability creeping in like a tide rising against a shore. He tried to suppress it, clinging to the last shreds of his resolve. But his body was no longer listening. His muscles twitched involuntarily, his vision narrowing to pinpricks of light, and the sounds of the yard faded into a distant hum.

No. Hold on. Just a little longer.

Ben squeezed his eyes shut, blocking out the brightness of the sun, the stifling heat that pressed in on him from every side. He tried to remember something else—anything else. Each breath came shallower than the last, his chest tightening against the pressure building inside him.

No. Just a little longer. Don’t let them win. Don’t let Kerr win.

He searched desperately for an anchor, something solid to hold onto. His vision was tunnelling now, narrowing to a blur of shadows and light. He blinked, trying to clear the haze, but the world remained stubbornly distant. His heartbeat hammered in his ears, a frantic rhythm that made his head spin. His lungs screamed for more air, but every attempt to inhale sent a new wave of pain crashing through his chest.

Don’t break

But his body was no longer listening.

The panic set in then, fast and brutal. His mind raced, instincts screaming at him to move, to fight, to breathe. But he couldn’t. His body was locked in place, the chains biting into his wrists and ankles, the pole forcing his arms up at a horrific angle. He squeezed his eyes shut, the brightness of the sun turning into a blinding white haze. His limbs were trembling, betraying him, shaking violently as the pain overwhelmed every nerve. His breath hitched again.

*No. Don’t. Not here. Not in front of them.*

And then it happened.

The gasp slipped out—barely audible, but it shattered the silence like glass.

It wasn’t a scream. But it was enough.

And then it came.

A gasp.

Quiet.

Barely audible.

 But it shattered the silence like a scream.

He had failed. Right there, in front of them all.

The second gasp tore free from his throat, more a whimper this time, echoing through the yard like a death knell. The shame crashed over him, hot and suffocating, as if the sun’s rays had turned to ice. He could feel the weight of his peers' silent judgments, each stare a reminder of his failure.

His body had betrayed him, proof in his shaking arms and ragged breath. A second gasp escaped him, louder, sharper, as the pain surged again. He didn’t need to look to know Paul had seen - they all had.

Now, they knew the truth: he wasn’t strong enough.

[teine-mallaichte]

Day 26 @ailesswhumptober - prompt: Electrocution, burning, “This is going to sting.”

Charlie is 17, she has been in on the medic training path for two years but even after 7 years at the facility sometimes it's hard not to care.

CW: burns, injurines, medical neglect, medical treatment, implied violence, implied torture, dissociation, psychological distress, dehuminisation.

AiLessWhumptober List Complex 27

Charlie knew her duty all too well: to keep assets functional, to ensure they could fulfill their missions, even if it meant employing methods that felt more like torture than care. Compassion was a luxury she had never been taught to indulge in; it was a weakness, a flaw that could lead to severe consequences in a world that thrived on obedience and efficiency.

As she stepped into the room, the acrid scent of burnt flesh mixed with the sharp tang of antiseptics filled her nostrils, clawing at her throat. The remnants of electrical burns permeated the air, a harsh reminder of the violence that had been inflicted upon the three assets before her. She had been instructed only to treat burns, a task shrouded in vague urgency, leaving her with little understanding of what had transpired.

Charlie’s gaze swept over the first asset, a teenager roughly her age, leaning against the wall, his posture suggesting weary resignation. His skin was mottled with angry red blisters that snaked up his neck, the aftermath of the shocking pain he had endured. A knot twisted in her stomach as she noticed his attempt at stoicism—the way his jaw clenched, the slight tremor in his hands, betraying the anguish coursing through him. For a fleeting moment, she wondered how long it would take before he could bear the weight of that pain, before he would be sent back into the unforgiving grind of training.

Next to him sat another asset, slumped in the corner, his body rigid yet lifeless, as if he were trying to retreat from the harshness of his surroundings. Charlie’s heart sank as she met his unfocused gaze, drifting somewhere far away from the stark reality of the room. A pang of concern lanced through her; there was something haunting about his demeanour, as if he were attempting to escape the torment that had become his everyday existence. She shook her head slightly, pushing aside the thought. Feelings were not for someone like her.

Lastly, there was a third asset lying flat on the ground, his eyes barely open, teetering on the precipice of consciousness. His condition was the most critical, his breaths shallow and ragged, and Charlie instinctively felt the urge to rush to his side. But she hesitated, a wave of uncertainty crashing over her.

Her stomach twisted in knots as she surveyed the scene before her. They looked abandoned, left to rot in a stark, impersonal room that offered no solace. The command echoed in her mind—"Get them functional.”

Functional.

Not healed, not cared for, just enough to make sure they could be sent back into the ruthless grind of training, a machine that chewed them up and spat them out, treating them like mere numbers rather than human beings. She was a cog in that relentless system, one that stripped away their identities, their autonomy, and ultimately, their humanity.

She had been trained to prioritize the least damaged asset, the one most capable of returning to duty. The first asset, who seemed to maintain a semblance of resilience, was the logical choice for immediate attention. But as her gaze flicked back to the third asset, it felt wrong to leave him there.

Charlie pushed down the wave of nausea rising within her. This was her duty, a necessary evil. She gathered her supplies, approaching the first asset.

“This is going to sting,” she said, her voice steady, though it felt foreign in her throat. She grabbed a sterile gauze pad and soaked it in antiseptic, the sharp smell mixing with the acrid odour of charred flesh.

As she applied the gauze to the burned skin, the first asset flinched, a low hiss escaping his lips. His body jerked involuntarily, and for a moment, she saw the flicker of a vulnerable boy beneath the hardened exterior. Charlie’s fingers trembled slightly as she worked, the urgency of the situation clawing at her insides. Each application felt like a betrayal of his pain, and she struggled to suppress her own.

“Just breathe,” she murmured, the reassurance felt futile.

“Just… get it over with,” he replied, his voice strained. There was an edge of defeat in his tone, a resignation to the torment that suffocated the room. Charlie met his eyes, and for a brief moment, she saw the flicker of something raw—fear? Hope? She quickly averted her gaze, unwilling to dwell on it. She had no time for such distractions.

As she reached for the antiseptic spray, she paused, the familiar bottle feeling cold and clinical in her hands. “This might hurt,” she warned, the words tasting bitter on her tongue. She aimed the nozzle at the burn and pressed down, releasing a fine mist. The asset gasped, and she felt a pang in her chest, the sound echoing in the silence.

His body jerked slightly, and she saw him bite down harder on his lip, the skin turning white against his teeth. The tension in the room was suffocating.

“Almost done,” she whispered as she turned to the sterile dressing, carefully applying it over the cleansed burn. Each movement felt like a small betrayal; her fingers trembled slightly as she secured the edges, conscious of every detail.

Once the first was bandaged, Charlie took a breath, steeling herself before shifting her attention to the second asset. He remained hunched in the corner, his body tense yet completely unresponsive, his eyes glassy and unfocused. The sight was unnerving. Was he even aware of what was happening around him?

She approached him slowly, almost fearing disturbing a fragile illusion of safety he had created in his mind. His eyes stared through her, unfocused and lost, drifting between the present and some far-off place.

Tentatively, Charlie placed her hand on his shoulder, hoping to coax him back to reality. “Hey,” she murmured, her voice softer now. “I’m here to help.” But he remained unresponsive. His eyes were dull, lost somewhere deep within the tangled corridors of his own mind.

“He won’t respond,” the first asset interjected, his voice hoarse and strained. “He disappears in his head.” His eyes met hers, hard and challenging, as if accusing her of complicity in their suffering.

Charlie's heart sank at the weight of his words. “Disappears,” she echoed softly, the term settling heavily on her tongue like a bitter pill. What must it be like to retreat so deeply within oneself, shielding against the pain of the physical and emotional torment? She wondered if she had ever gone there herself.

She set to work, examining the burns and cleaning them. The asset stayed still, offering no resistance, as if he were merely a lifeless doll. It wasn't until the antiseptic spray that she saw even the slightest flicker of reaction from him—the asset's body jerked slightly, a breath escaping his lips that sounded more like a whimper than a gasp. Her heart clenched at the sound, her stomach twisting in knots. The urge to stop and comfort him clawed at her, but she forced herself to focus, her movements mechanical as she dressed his burns.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words spilling out before she could stop them. Did he even know she was there? Did he know that she was trying to help, or was she just another cog in this cruel machine?

Glancing at the first asset, she found him watching her, assessing her. There was something in his gaze—distrust, perhaps. As if she were part of the system that had failed them. Just another medic, here to patch them up and throw them back to be broken again.

He looked at her as if she was a threat.

Perhaps she was.