#and poor b9-11 has no idea of anything that happens outside of his tank

[whumping-every-day]

Unit B9-11

YO you know what I did? I forgot that I had a bingo card. Feels very in character for me. Also, do you guys remember when I did a pole asking which whump scenario you’d prefer? Well, here is the first installment from option B! Also conveniently set in Sky and Mark’s universe. Drabbles are here and here.

Tags: Sensory deprivation, kept in a tank, experimentation(?), dehumanization, body modification, brain wipe/brain washing, dubiously human whumpee.  

--

It’s dark. It’s wet. He’s submerged in some kind of liquid, but he is not drowning. There’s nothing to hold onto, no surface under him, no lid on top. So he floats. 

He floats, and he waits, and there’s nothing. 

Where is he? 

He’s not in pain, but he’s also not not in pain. Something drags against his sides, weighing down his arms, but he cannot see what it is, because it is dark. 

Thought returns slowly, pulsing out in little waves that slowly grow in intensity. He is alone, and it’s dark, and - he is afraid. 

And just like that, Unit B9-11 rediscovers fear. 

He can’t remember why he is afraid. But now that he has remembered, the fear is like a living thing, twisting up in his throat and clogging his airways, choking him with it. 

Where is he? 

B9-11′s head is ringing, and he knows that that means something. The metal disk welded onto the back of his skull is raw and tender, he knows that without even touching it. That means something. 

What does that mean? 

He’s alone, and it’s dark, and suddenly B9-11 wants out. 

The thick liquid absorbs his first cry, and the second, and the third. He tries to struggle, twisting around in a blind panic - but he is stopped by something. The thing from before, the thing that had been weighting his arms and sides down... 

There’s something attached to him. 

B9-11 screams again, and the water swallows the sound, and the light. 

It’s difficult to move, but the Unit (unit of what? why can’t he remember?) tries to feel his sides, dragging an arm through the murky substance he’s encased in. It feels like the liquid is getting thicker, more like gel and less like water. 

His fingers meet something cold, colder than the surrounding goo. It’s hard, and slimy, and when B9-11 tugs on it, something yanks and pulls horribly in his side. 

It’s metal, and it’s attached to him. 

They’re cables, B9-11 realizes in horror. They’re metal cables, and in his sides, and along his arms - ports. He’s been hooked up to machinery, and these things have been plugged into him, like he’s a computer. The thing on the back of his head is a port too, although he’s not sure how he knows that. 

Unit B9-11. 

Where the hell is he? 

“Hey! Help! Help me!” He screams. Or, he tries. The moment he opens his mouth more of that viscous liquid floods his mouth, and even though he knows he’s been breathing it the whole time, B9-11 still chokes and gags on the texture. 

There’s nowhere to go, and B9-11 doesn’t know how long he spends in blind panic and terror, clawing at his arms and heaving that horrible, thick gel in and out of his lungs. He needs it out, he needs to be out. But there is no out - he doesn’t even know which way out is. 

Was there ever an out? B9-11 can’t remember anything before where he is right now. Maybe this is all there is. 

He screams and thrashes hard enough to yank against the cables, and a sharp jolt of pain shoots through his side. It’s a deep pain, the kind his body won’t let him pull against, and B9-11 goes limp with tears streaming from his eyes. 

He doesn’t know how much longer he lies there, floating suspended in nothing. But the darkness feels oppressive, heavy, almost. There’s no light, no sound, no feeling or sensations - he’s trapped in a vat of pure nothingness. 

Something whirs to life, then, sudden and startling, and the whole tank vibrates with it. It’s like a sledgehammer to B9-11′s ears after so long of nothing, and he cries out soundlessly and tries to clamp his hands over his ears. But he can’t move enough for that, can’t even move to shield himself as the front partition of his prison slides away. 

He sees a room, then, and unit B9-11 is hanging suspended on the wall, kept upright in what is definitely a tank. There are wires and thick metal cables draped across the floor, orange safety tape everywhere, and there are four scientists in white lab coats. 

One of them is looking up at him, holding a clipboard and frowning. B9-11 meets their eyes through the glass, and suddenly he feels even colder than before. 

Those eyes don’t look at him like he’s a person. Those eyes look at him like they would very much like to strap him to a table and dissect him. 

“Run the numbers again.” 

The words are muffled, coming through inches and inches of solid glass and murky liquid. Another of the scientists flips a switch, and peers at the obscured screen for a long moment. B9-11 is still overwhelmed by the light, and he still doesn’t know where he is, or what they want - 

“Please,” he tries, but it gets swallowed by the void around him. The unit gags again and screams in frustration, and the scientists all frown in unison. 

“It’s no good,” one of them says. “This is even worse than last time.” 

“Then it can’t be helped.” It’s the one with the clipboard, the one who makes B9-11 feel like a bug pinned to their wall without even touching him. Their eyes are a cold blue, colder even than B9-11′s prison. “Initiate a hard reset. We’re starting over.” 

“No!” B9-11 tries to beg, tries to scream. “No, no please! Who are you, what do you want-” But it all comes out as a formless gurgling. He thrashes, but now the liquid around him feels like it’s holding him down, even thicker and heavier than before. It weighs his limbs down, keeps him still. 

The partition starts to close again, sliding across the front of the glass, and the last thing B9-11 sees is the head scientist keying a command into the computer. 

Then he is plunged back into nothingness. 

Everything is quiet for a long moment, and B9-11 chokes on a sob, tasting the vile, bitter taint of the gel they have him encased in. 

Then something touches the back of his neck. 

B9-11 goes wild with panic as the final port slides into place in the back of his skull. He’s screaming again, maybe, crying and sobbing and twisting desperately against the metal cables. But there’s no give in any of it, and then there’s that awful humming again, the sound of machinery warming up. 

Pain explodes in his head in a flash of white light, and B9-11′s whole body convulses with it, mouth stretched open in a silent scream and fingers flexing and curling. He hangs there, jerking and shaking, as he feels himself start to slip away. 

He remembers, now. For a split second, after they attach the cable to his port and before they start wiping everything away, he remembers. There is only pain, in this place. His memories blur together; all the same, none of them different. Pain. Torture. More pain. More torture. Wires. Cold metal tables. Pain. Invasion. A foreign presence hacking into his mind and bending it to their will. Pain. 

The cable hums to life, and the agony from his port spreads to the rest of his body, and B9-11 screams in terror and denial as he feels them turn his thoughts off again. 

After that, there is nothing. Just the dark and cold. B9-11 cannot remember why he was so afraid... 

And after a while, he can’t remember anything at all.