#brainwashing whump

[whitecoatwhump]

Bad and naughty test subjects have to sit in the mind wiping chair until they can barely remember how to breathe

[whumpsoda]

I. I love vampire hunters turned thralls. Brainwashed into adoring little pets to creatures of which they once chased down with the goal of killing… UGH just someone who used to hate the thing they now address as master… bonus points if they get their memories erased and have no memory of their hunter past :3

[whump-in-the-night]

Brainwashed whumpee fighing back against caretaker when they come to rescue whumpee.

Whumper laughing about it, "See, caretaker? They're mine now."

[carosbee]

Whump Scenario

Whumpee was born inside of a lab, half human and half wires. They think just like a human, they feel pain just like a human but will never be a human.

Whumper finds them as an infant (for worse) and they are owned as property by them. Until Whumper's base is raided and Whumpee is taken to a human rights organisation specialising in Whumpees.

Whumper sees their day in court, however it's delayed by the case deciding whether Whumpee counts as human or not. It's declared they don't, and Whumper is let free and given back Whumpee.

Except Whumper sues the human rights organisation for theft and uses the fact that Whumpee isn't legally human to film Whumpee's usual torture and post it online (after all, no humans harmed).

Whumpee doesn't mind; they've never known anything different.

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

Whumptember day 10

“What are you doing to them?” Brainwashed | Hanging from their wrists | Phone call

It felt like their brain was vibrating. All they could hear or feel was an endless buzzing, like all their atoms were trying to pull apart from one another. It was overwhelming, muffling any sensations from the outside world. They couldn't hear, they couldn't think. Their brain was vibrating.

It’d hurt, before. Or they thought it had. They couldn’t remember much before the buzzing had started, but they remembered struggling against the feeling. Had they fought because it hurt? Because it was bad? They didn't remember.

They didn’t struggle now. They didn’t know how, when the entire world was vibrating.

It was like bees had taken residence in their skull; not to harm it, but to reshape it. Everything useless was tossed away, the gaping holes being filled with honey. They’d fought to stop it, but then the memory of why they were fighting had been drowned in sticky sweetness.

It was dizzying and disorienting, it put their teeth on edge, but they didn’t know if it hurt. They couldn’t know anything, not when their brain was vibrating.

They heard voices somewhere outside of their hive they’d become, distant and nearly drowned out.

“What…what is this? What are you doing to them?”

“Hero, you’re aware of our reformation project, yes? Villain is our first patient.”

Just barely, they could hear the voices approaching.

“I–So you’re what, brainwashing them? Is this ethical? Does it hurt?”

Yes, the thought bubbled through the buzzing, it does, please it–

”No, not at all. It’s entirely painless.”

–doesn’t hurt? No, it doesn’t, but didn’t it before? They weren’t sure anymore. The question was being thrown away alongside the other trash, swallowed up and drowned out. They quickly lost hold of it.

Something touched a distant part of their body, and it took a long moment for them to realize they were more than their buzzing skull. Something had been holding their arms aloft, and with a click, it released. They nearly fell forward without the support, but something wrapped around their face held them up, pulling at their scalp.

“Villain, can you hear me? It’s Hero,” The voice was back, closer, but still muffled by the chaos in their mind. It felt like the voice reminded them of something, but they didn’t know. The part of their brain that had known had been scooped out and replaced, leaving barely the shape of a memory.

Something clicked, the noise echoing in the mind, and the buzzing sharpened. They shivered at the sensation of their brain finally sitting still, the see of static shifting into an organized effort.

“Stand up,” The voice wasn’t muffled by the noise, it was the noise. The vibration was shaped by the words, speaking with power that they felt in their bones.

It was a relief, and they chased after that peace. They stood on legs they hardly remembered they had.

Something was moving on their head, whatever had been wrapped around their skull being removed. The world exploded into color, the change taking them a moment to adjust to. When they opened their eyes, two figures stood before them.

The vibrating was already coming back, their moment of peace fading. But then one of the figures clicked a button they held in their hands, and everything sharpened.

“Tell me, who are you and what do you want?”

They hadn’t known the answer seconds ago. They still didn’t know, and yet the truth formed in their mind. After the disorientating chaos, the confidence they felt at their answer was a comfort.

And outside of the angry hive Villain’s mind had become, Hero watched, a horrified onlooker, as their former foe’s face split with a vacant, dull-eyed smile.

“My name is Sidekick, and I want to help you in any way possible.”

[whump-me]

Whumptober Day 19: Psychological

This is a standalone story in my original Mind Games universe, a modern-day sci-fi/fantasy thriller setting about ordinary humans with superhuman abilities and the people who want to use or destroy them. Full description in my Whumptober masterpost, which is linked in my pinned post.

This story contains: brainwashing, emotional whump, minor whumpee

Words: 2400

---

This is what you were made for, the instructors always told them. They told them that when they cried. When they missed their old life, their family and friends. When they remembered what they had lost when the men came in their unmarked vans and stole them away with their syringes full of liquid that put them to sleep. When they remembered everything they would never have again.

The lives they had left behind were fine for ordinary people, the instructors told them. But they weren’t ordinary. They had gifts most people could only dream of, and it was their responsibility to use those gifts for the greater good. They had purpose, and purpose required sacrifice. They had to sacrifice their families, their friends, their dreams for the future, in order to be who they were born to be.

The instructors said it as a comfort, wrapping crying bodies in blankets and pressing mugs of warm chamomile tea into their hands. They said it as an admonition, as they locked them in the punishment room for a day or two or three. They said it when anyone cried, when anyone questioned, when anyone’s face showed a flicker of doubt.

It was tempting to believe. They had all lost everything when PERI had come for them. Some of them hadn’t even known they had powers. Almost none of them had known about the Enhanced gene that gave some people supernatural abilities, or about PERI, the government-funded program that hunted for children with the gene and trained them as operatives. None of them had seen this coming.

Almost none of them.

They had lost their previous lives all at once, with no warning. Now they spent their nights in bare cell-like rooms, and their days in an exhausting training regimen. Physical training. Mental training. Ability training, which varied depending on whether they were telepaths or pyrokinetics or could heal with a touch—there were almost as many unique powers in the cohort as there were people.

There was no time for fun. Friendship wasn’t allowed—any members of their cohort who spoke too to each other, or in whispers like they had something to hide, were quickly separated by the instructors.

It was tempting to think there was a reason for it. At least once they all came to realize, one by one, that they were never going home again.

Yasmina watched it change the others. She watched them all start to reluctantly settle into their new life. The criers stopped crying as much. The yellers stopped yelling as much. The ones who had sworn they wouldn’t cooperate started getting invested in the competitions the instructors set for them.

From the outside, she was sure she looked the same. She had faked being a yeller, because it was easier than faking tears. The downside to that was that it meant fewer warm mugs of tea pressed into her hands, and more days in the punishment room.

But she had been prepared, and she had endured. She had let her defiance fade, little by little, until she was the obedient drone the instructors wanted.

But she didn’t believe any of it. Not like the others. She didn’t need to believe it. Unlike them, she was getting out.

She had let herself be taken on purpose. Tasha, her legal guardian for two more years, had taken her for a routine blood test at a clinic that her parents’ Enhanced resistance team knew PERI monitored for abnormal genetic results. The plan had been her idea; it had taken months to persuade the others. Only once she had threatened to make it happen on her own, without their help, had they agreed to let her do it.

Her parents would have said she was too young. But her age was the only reason she could do this at all—even at sixteen, she was almost too old for PERI training. Some of the kids in her cohort were seven or eight. And her Enhanced ability was perfect memory—she could learn everything about the facility and the training process, and deliver it back to the team in every perfect detail.

And her parents, killed on a mission last year, were no longer around to object.

She lay on the top bunk in her cohort’s dorm, staring up at the ceiling. Now that almost everyone had given up on their defiance, most of them had earned enough trust to sleep in the group dorm instead of the individual cells. There wasn’t as much difference between the two as she had expected. The dorm was quiet—there was no whispering between beds, no sound at all aside from light snores and the occasional suppressed tears.

The constant competitions, with harsh consequences for failure, were successfully driving wedges between them all. When that didn’t do the trick, having to practice their abilities on each other did it. Also, the dorm was bugged, and everyone knew it. If anyone talked for too long, an instructor would come and take the offenders away to spend the night in the punishment room.

Yasmina lay awake, listening to one person’s sleep-talk and another’s quiet sobs. She listened until the familiar mental tickle brushed the back of her mind. She relaxed into the hard mattress, a smile coming to her face. She stayed awake as long as she could every night, waiting for contact, but it had been weeks since the last time Tasha had reached out to her.

She hadn’t been afraid—she knew her parents’ team wouldn’t abandon her here. But, well, she had wondered. There was always the risk that something had happened to Tasha. As a fairly weak telepath, Tasha had to get close to the facility to make contact, which was dangerous.

Can you talk? Tasha asked.

Yasmina sent a burst of wordless affirmation in response. She wasn’t a telepath herself, but all she had to do for Tasha to hear her was think strongly enough and clearly enough.

How are you holding up? Tasha’s voice was thick with concern, like an instructor pressing a mug of tea into a crying trainee’s hand.

In answer, she downloaded image after image into Tasha’s mind. The two of them had practiced the technique together in the weeks before Yasmina had gotten herself captured. She had practiced focusing on her memories until Tasha could see them as clearly as she could. Tasha had practiced memorizing the details. They had found, through trial and error, that still images worked the best. That meant it took a long time to transmit the information, but it was worth it.

When she was done, Tasha sent her a wave of wordless thanks. Yasmina responded with a burst of acknowledgment. She curled on her side, ready to go to sleep.

Wait, said Tasha.

Yasmina opened her eyes again. Is something wrong?

The opposite, said Tasha. It’s been a year. It’s finally time to get you home.

Yasmina sent a burst of confusion along their telepathic connection. A year? It couldn’t have been that long. She tried to count up the days, and then the weeks. But they all blended together. Every day of training was much the same as last. And they didn’t have calendars in here.

Not yet, said Yasmina. I’m not done here.

We agreed on a year, said Tasha, sharp concern leaking through the connection. We’re not leaving you in that place a day longer than necessary.

There are still parts of the facility I haven’t seen yet, Yasmina protested. And I’m doing fine. It’s not as bad as I thought it would be. Sometimes the training was even fun. She hadn’t known her body was capable of this kind of strength, or that her memory could get even better than it had been when she had started.

And while she was here, she had a purpose.

Yes, it was a sacrifice. But she could make that sacrifice. It was her responsibility to make that sacrifice, to use her ability for something worthwhile.

We’re getting you out, said Tasha, her mental voice too firm to allow any disagreement. Be at the south perimeter gate at the start of your evening free-training period.

Her voice cut off before Yasmina could offer any more protests.

Yasmina stared up at the ceiling again, no longer the least bit sleepy. All of a sudden, she wanted to yell—the way she had when she had first come here, when she’d had to fake defiance to make her ruse believable. She wanted to let out a good scream, loud enough to tear her throat, loud enough to get her thrown in the punishment room.

Why, though? It wasn’t as if she didn’t want to go home. She had clung to that secret like a worn-out teddy bear for her entire time here. The others wouldn’t get to go home. The others had to find a way to cope with that. The others had to swallow the instructors’ propaganda because it was the only way to make their fate tolerable. But not her. Her time here was temporary.

But home felt like a flickering image on a distant TV screen. Home was her room at Tasha’s house, which used to be a walk-in pantry—Tasha hadn’t really had room for her when she has taken her in. Home was faking a smile for Tasha and trying to pretend her grief was fading. Home was trudging through her classes and trying to pretend any of it meant anything with her parents gone.

Tasha’s house might have been home, but it wasn’t where her life was, not anymore. Her life was her mission, the adrenaline rush of collecting information for the enemy under PERI’s noses. Her life was pushing herself to excel at her training while holding her secret close to her chest. Her life was using her ability for a purpose, the way her parents had, instead of sitting in Tasha’s old pantry with nothing to do but try not to cry too loudly.

What had she even done with herself all day when she hadn’t had a mission?

The next evening, she considered not going to the gate. But of course she went, because that was her mission, and those were her orders. Her training hadn’t just shown her how strong she could be; it had taught her the importance of following orders, of sticking to the mission.

When she reached the gate, it was open. Johan and Marissa were waiting for her, their bodies tense, their eyes darting warily back and forth. Marissa hustled her out, while Johan checked her over with concerned eyes.

This training facility was surrounded by twenty miles of forest. Johan and Marissa hustled her down a narrow path through the trees, which became an unpaved road. Marissa’s Jeep was waiting there, the engine idling.

Yasmina climbed into the backseat. Tasha was waiting for her there. When she saw Yasmina, a grin of pure relief spread across her face.

“You’re out!” Tasha boomed. “You made it!”

Yasmina cringed against the car door. Tasha’s voice probably wasn’t that loud, but Yasmina was used to furtive whispers.

“It’s so good to see you,” Tasha continued. “God, you’re so tall. I didn’t think you had another growth spurt left in you, but I guess you proved me wrong. And those muscles.” Tasha flexed one of her own bony arms. “You could bench-press two of me.”

Had Yasmina ever lived in a world with this much idle conversation in it? She stared out the window at the passing trees.

I’m really proud of you, you know, Tasha said, her voice blessedly softening. “We all are.”

“It was the mission,” Yasmina said with a small shrug. She shot a look over her shoulder. The facility had already disappeared into the distance. A sharp pang tugged at her heart.

She would never miss the facility itself. She couldn’t think of a thing she liked about that horrible place, except maybe the training itself. She had never had the chance to make friends—the instructors had made sure of that. But she already missed the mission.

“So,” said Tasha. “Now that you’re free, what’s the first thing you want to do?”

Yasmina turned away from the window to stare at Tasha blankly. “What do you mean?”

“There’s got to be something you’ve been missing,” Tasha said. “You want to go shopping? With how much you’ve grown, I’m sure none of your old clothes will fit you. Or we could splurge on a fancy dinner at that Italian place you like so much.”

Yasmina remembered shopping. But the memory was distant and hazy. She couldn’t remember what she had liked about it, or whether she had liked it at all. Mostly, what she remembered was all the colors, and all the choices. The thought made her head hurt. In the training facility, she had worn the same plain gray trainee’s uniform every day. She had hated it at first, but soon enough, she had stopped thinking about it. Now it was just one more decision she didn’t have to make. One less thing to distract her from the mission.

“We could dig out your old roller skates and go to the rink,” Tasha suggested. “I remember how much you used to like doing that with your parents…” Her voice trailed off as she frowned at Yasmina in concern. “Hey. Are you okay?”

Yasmina nodded. “I’m okay.”

Of course she was. She had completed the mission. She had done what she was made for. She had made all the sacrifices she’d had to make.

And now it was over. The absence of her mission left a hollow place inside her. It was her responsibility to use her gift for the greater good. It was her purpose. If she didn’t have a mission, then what was the point of her life?

Tasha said something else. Yasmina turned back toward the window and stopped listening.

It would be okay. She would be okay. She had followed her orders to the best of her ability, and she had completed her mission.

And now that she had proved she could handle a mission, soon they would give her another.

That thought finally let her relax. She leaned against the door and let the rhythmic hum of the engine lull her to sleep.

---

Tagged: @cakeinthevoid @gala1981

Ask to be added or removed from my Whumptober 2023 taglist.

[stagelightwhump]

User's Manual information: Memory Chips

Memory Chips (or just Chips) are similar to microSD cards, and are typically about the size of a stamp, and contain up to an exabyte of data. They are uniformly gray, with no ornamentation, and cannot be taken apart once put together. After being installed into a Unit, the Chip runs a one-time program that prevents the Unit from touching the area the Chip was installed into, to prevent data corruption. There are two things that make Chips unique compared to other data storage devices.

The first is that all data contained on a Chip is converted into one of several lossless, unique formats. For example, a Unit's memories of their "life" before being purchased are stored as .mmry_long, and may contain scent, touch, and location data, among other things. Other formats include mmry_real, for things the Unit has actually experienced, mmry_phys for "muscle memory", and .mmry_cmnd for active or past orders the Unit has received.

The second is that Chips can cleanly be installed into a human brain without causing the Chip's data to corrupt, and without damaging the brain's important functions. Granted, it does cause the brain's memories to be partially overwritten if there's already data on the Chip, but if a Unit comes onto the line with no Chip and a human brain, The Factory isn't going to question it. Its purpose is to create and repair Units, and if something is on the conveyor belt, it must be a Unit, so the overwriting of corrupt memories is considered a feature, not a bug. Not that the repaired Units are able to complain, anyway!

[bilightningwhumper]

Mangst 2024- Day 3

<<Previous . Masterlist . Next>>

Picture Perfect (Rapunzel + Hansel and Gretel) Masterlist

“You don’t remember, do you?”

Summary:

Leslie learns more about her family Potential spoiler excerpt from "Picture Perfect"

Notes:

Colds are terrible and I've already got enough brain fog without them. Next chapters are going to be slow going while I get over it. I've managed to make notes for them, but making a narrative is a lot of effort at the moment Warnings for this one: panic attack, semi-mental breakdown, mentions of brainwashing by and trauma bonding for abuser Characters: Leslie- Rapunzel "Mama" (mentioned)- Mother Gothel/Sorceress/Witch

Leslie's POV

At least outside wasn’t as stuffy as her room. Leslie didn’t understand why she couldn’t leave like the others could. Well, Isaac had made good points, like the Institution taking her back. But Mama wouldn’t make her go back if she just knew. If Leslie could just make a call and explain, Mama would take her home. Then everything could go back to normal.

“Leslie?” The nice nurse, Crystal, was behind her with a strange woman. “There’s someone who’d like to talk to you.”

The woman approached as Crystal stepped aside. She gave Leslie a strange sort of smile as she put a hand on the chair opposite her.

“May I sit with you?” she asked.

Leslie tilted her head. The people here were odd, always asking for her permission to do things. But it could be a trick, so she nodded.

Pulling out the chair, the woman sat down, putting a thick file on the table between them. “My name is Rosemary Carroll. I’m an agent of the Felony Tracking Agency, ‘FTA’ for short. Do you know what that is?”

Leslie shook her head.

“We’re partnered with the Huntsman Legal group to find out more about you. Well, people like you. Trying to reconnect you with your family or soulmates. Other people who won’t take you back to the Institution.”

She perked up. “Did you call Mama? Is she here for me?”

Ms Carroll got a funny look on her face. “We didn’t find her, no. We found out something else, though.” Opening the folder, she took out a set of pictures and placed them in front of Leslie. “Can you look at these for me?”

She took the pictures, spreading them out and ordering them neatly in front of her. They all looked like pictures of the same family. A mother, a father, and a little girl. The little girl was blonde, different ages in the pictures. Ms Carroll didn’t tell her what to do with them really other than look, so she arranged them in how order of how old she thought the little girl was. Leslie could feel Ms Carroll watching her and her hands started shaking. Was she doing something wrong?

“You don’t remember, do you?”

Leslie looked up, confused. “Remember what?”

“This,” Ms Carroll held up a picture of the little girl on a bike, her father behind her, and her mother cheering behind them. “This is your family.”

That didn’t make any sense. “But that’s not Mama.” She pointed at the woman in the pictures. “Mama has black hair and she’s tall and skinny. This lady is blonde and short and pudgy.”

Ms Carroll sighed softly, pulling out more papers. “Do you remember how when you first arrived, they ran tests on you? One of them being a DNA test?”

She nodded. “They said it was to find Mama. Or my daddy. But Mama said he was a bad man who didn’t want me.”

“Well, we found this couple. These were the results of both your test and theirs, along with their missing daughter’s.” Ms Carroll passed her more papers that had charts and names on them.

She recognized her name and could read three others, all with the same last name: Anita, Colin, and Riley Shepard. The charts and numbers she didn’t understand. Leslie looked up at Ms Carroll.

“What is this?” she asked, laying down the papers on top of the pictures.

“Well, their parental matches are fifty percent matches to you.” Ms Carroll pointed at Anita and Colin’s results, both with a 50% next to them. “Typically, a one-hundred percent match for children to each other would be in the case of identical twins. But the Shepards only had one child, their daughter, who went missing when she was seven.” She pointed at Riley’s results, that had a 100% next to it.

Leslie stood up, ringing her hands. “Why does it say this? It’s wrong. Mama’s my family. She took me from the hospital herself. She always told that.”

“She wasn’t lying to you, Leslie.” Ms Carroll pulled out some more papers. “The case files from Riley’s disappearance talk about how she was sick, always in and out of the hospital. I talked with the Shepards and they confirmed this. Riley presented very early at age five. So her heats were very intense for her and hospital intervention was the only way to help. Right as the doctors found the right medication to balance her heats for her age, Riley disappeared.”

Foggy memories pulled at Leslie. Waking up in cold sweats. A cool hand on her forehead. Someone singing something to her. Mama never sang to her.

‘I’m your only family, baby bird. The only one who wanted you. Never forget that.’

“No.” Leslie shook her head., pacing back and forth “That’s not me. I’m sorry for that family, but it’s not me. Mama loves me. She’d never do something like that.”

“Do you remember any baby pictures? Any evidence she’d had you when you were a young child?”

“Mama didn’t keep any. Babies aren’t pretty. She only kept pictures that were pretty.” Leslie couldn’t breathe. Maybe she’d made her corset too tight. “Mama doesn’t like it when I’m not pretty.”

Ms Carroll pulled out something else from her pocket. A bulky looking thing that had a camera lens on it. She flipped out something on the side. “Listen to this for me?” Then she pushed a button.

“Lavender’s blue, dilly dilly…”

Leslie froze. She knew that. She knew…

‘I’m your only family, baby bird.’

“Lavender’s green. When I am king, dilly, dilly…”

“Stop it.”

‘The only one who wanted you.’

“You shall be queen. Who told you so, dilly, dilly…”

‘Never forget that.’

“I said stop it!”

Leslie knocked the thing out of Ms Carroll’s hands, shattering it on the ground. The music stopped and someone was crying. No, she was crying.

“Leslie…”

She ran. Away from the woman. Away from the pictures. She ignored anyone calling after her. Dodged any attempts to stop her.

Once she got back to her room, she locked the door, breathing hard. That stupid singing was still in her head. Why wouldn’t it go away?

Mama was her family. Mama loved her.

Mama…

Mama lied.

Breathing hard, she backed away from the door.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Makeup streaming down her face. Hair a mess. Dress rumpled and wrinkled.

‘Oh, baby bird, you look terrible. Let’s fix you up and make you pretty again.’

She sat in front of the vanity, picked up her make-up brushes, looked back up at the mirror.

‘You look beautiful like this. You don’t need any of it to be pretty.’

No, that was wrong. Mama made her pretty. Mama knew what made her look best. Mama made her the best.

‘You’re beautiful, Leslie. And funny. Smart. Don’t let her keep telling you otherwise.’

She shook her head, dropping the brushes, tugging at her hair. No, not that again. She’d been doing so well. Mama sent her to the Institution to forget about that. Mama loved her. The only one who truly did.

‘You’re mine, not his. Maybe I should help you remember that.’

There were scissors to the side of her. She remembered asking for some so she could make art again. Picking them up, she looked at herself in the mirror again.

‘You don’t need any of it to be pretty.’

It felt like someone else was controlling her hands. Like she was a puppet on strings. She watched as she pulled out hairpins, took up a chunk of hair, then-

Snip

Hair fell to the floor, some of it on her shoulder.

Snip

More hair gone. Her chest felt lighter, even as tears clouded her vision and her breath shuttered.

She kept cutting until her hair was just above her shoulders, varying lengths in most places. It looked awful, choppy, messy. Not at all what Mama would like.

Laughing to herself through tears, she got her make-up wipes and scrubbed her face. She probably used too many, being wasteful with what Crystal had given her. A glance in the mirror told her she was successful, though, getting all of the make-up off, face red and raw from crying.

Next was the clothing. Ripping, tearing, destroying the things Mama wanted her to wear. No more dresses. No more corsets. No more Mama’s pretty bird.

She was no one.

Nothing.

No one’s.

She pulled out some of the clothing from her nest. A shirt from Isaac. Pants she got from the clothing the center had supplied.

Burrowing into her nest, she pulled a blanket over her head. She didn’t know who she was anymore. But she had a pack. She belonged with them.

That much she knew.

That’s all she needed.

[greenhouseofwhump]

Did anyone else stumble across the moonblinking scenes in Guardians of Ga’Hoole as a kid and have that alone give you an interest in brainwashing whump or was that just me

[whumpster-dumpster]

Love it when a whumpee who's known to be especially emotive just goes blank. Dead quiet, glassy eyes, no thoughts head empty, especially if the change is super abrupt and unnerving

[jordanstrophe]

Amnesia whump:

it takes whumper weeks to "clear whumpee's head." Every day, whumpee loses more and more memories. Slowly, they go from constant defiance to a constant state of confusion.

Once whumper knows they have a blank slate, the next time whumpee wakes up, they're in a beautiful room with whumper lovingly by their bedside.

"You don't remember anything? Oh my poor darling sweetheart, I'll take such good care of you, just like I always have."

Whumpee has no reason to question this stranger;

-Unknowing it's their very brainwasher. 

[whumpsoda]

Dream Idea!!!

here’s that story I was talking about from my dream…

cw: living weapon whumpee, dehumanization, brainwashed whumpees, multiple whumpees, numbers as names, memory loss/amnesia

——————

Five swallowed, saliva rolling over his mouth’s dry, sandpaper roof. The wheels of his chair jumped over a bump in the tile, snapping his eyes awake.

His handler - that’s all he knew them by, he wasn’t allowed to know their name - rolled him down the hallway, constantly stopping to pull out their badge and open the next set of doors. The walls were all colored a dingy, peeling grey, the doors each a florescent white, hurting his vision.

The straps, burning black and of a coarse leather, curled over him every which way - around his neck, wrists, ankles, head, and so on. They would have been uncomfortable had he not been so used to them. Maybe at one point they had been uncomfortable, but that time was long gone.

Five could barely move in them, even if he wanted to. Sometimes he did have that urge, like earlier, but the handlers were good at dealing with him when he got bad.

His partner - he didn’t really know what else to call him - was pushed alongside Five, in a chair of his own, though one missing the restraints. Good boys didn’t need those, and Six was a very good boy.

Five was not.

Six was master’s favorite, by far. Six was pretty, slender and tall with a nice face to match. Six listened all of the time, took lessons as easily as possible, and was always obedient. Six was quiet, silent even, and perfectly docile. Six was even Five’s favorite.

Five liked looking at him, as much as he could in his peripheral vision with the straps locking his head in place. He liked the way his nose poked upward, the way his lashes fluttered when he blinked. Five liked him.

But, there was a word sitting right on the tip of his tongue and waiting when Five studied him. Not said, just there. With the weight of a ton, not able to be pushed past the gate of his teeth.

Somehow, for some reason, Five new it was a bad thought. Five always got a lingering tingle in his belly when bad thoughts started coming, and that tingle had been going off all day.

Five managed a slight shift of his position, making it just so he could see Six even better. The tingle got even more twisted around his gut when Five realized he was wearing one of the correction helmets.

Why would Six ever need a correction helmet?

Six was a good boy! Six was always good, even when Five wasn’t. Five couldn’t think of an instance where Six would ever have needed the correction helmet.

Six blinked, slow and lazy, knobby knees curled up to his chin. His face was falling slack, ever so limp by the second, drool dribbling from his parted lips. That’s how everyone was when they were being fixed, yet this time something about it was just wrong. Bad even, although one half of his mind was saying Six was a very good boy for allowing himself to be bettered.

Bile flooded Five’s belly, clawing up his warm throat at the sight, so much so that he had to shove it back down to keep it from spilling out. Thrumming, his brain was plagued with a sharp throb. Something was wrong, or maybe everything was wrong, they weren’t supposed to be there, it was all so very wrong and his name wasn’t even Five it was-

“Everyone…,” he managed, voice crackling, gaze washing over the scenery as they passed, all of the others having a good, docile time in the play room, “this, this is… normal. Good.”

His handler, lazily guiding his chair, hummed in agreement. “That’s right.”

He needed to remind himself how to be good. That he could be a good boy if he really tried. “I am… normal. This is how this one is meant to… to be.” A smile twitched on his face, not reaching his eyes no matter how much he tried.

“Exactly.” She said, ruffling his hair just the slightest. A bit affectionately, like one would do to a dog.

The mantras didn’t work, they never really seemed to. The bad thoughts were closing in, practically strangling him, making it like his mind couldn’t breath. “Mmngh…!” Five grit his teeth, wriggling in fruitlessly in his chair.

His handler’s easiness squeezed sour, stopping in her tracks. “Don’t start.” “No! No, no, no!” All wrong, everything was so fucking wrong, “Let me-!”

Collar buzzing, spit flew from his lips as the shock sounded, thick and melting in his head. His handler kept her finger on the button for a good second before finally letting go, his limbs turned to writhing jelly.

“Good thing you’re in your chair this time. You did a number on the cafeteria when you last flipped out.”

“You can’t do this-!” He wailed, tears welling up and blurring his vision. Five was confused on just why he was acting out, but still was sure there was a reason. “Help! Someone, please! Help me!”

“Hush. You’re going to disturb the others. Don’t want to upset Six, now, do we?” His handler tisked, continuing to roll him down a new hallway is if he wasn’t screaming bloody murder.

“Let me go! Let me out! Now!”

Finally they reached an actual room, Five’s sore and exhausted limbs fighting weakly, to no avail. His handler allowed him the freedom to shriek, only until they slipped his own correction helmet over and onto his head.

That got him to quiet. Thoughts not of his own molded his mind like putty in an instant, drowning out all of the bad with good.

Five wanted to be a good boy. Obedient, docile, and good. Everything was normal. Everything was fine. That was how it was meant to be.

They circled him, squeezing his head dry of anything unauthorized.

Five wanted to be a good boy. Obedient, docile, and good. Everything was normal. Everything was fine. That was how it was meant to be.

Five would be a good boy eventually, and they would make sure of it.

——————

Taglist- @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[whump-galaxy]

“You’re very beautiful. Why are you crying?”

“I can’t…I can’t fix what they did to you. Not this time.”

“What do you mean? Is there something wrong with me?”

[whumpypepsigal]

“Neither of us has ever been given the chance to choose anything.”

[oliversrarebooks]

a good grade in being brainwashed: wants and needs

Masterlist > Next

tw: pet whump, bbu-adjacent, dehumanization, conditioning, references to drugging, references to dubcon

He was getting a good grade in being brainwashed, something that is both normal to want and possible to achieve.

"He seems a little clingy, though."

B211's heart sank into his knees. He knew that was one of the absolute worst things a prospective owner could say about him, the very thing his handlers had spent so much time trying to train out of him. Don't cling. Don't be needy. Be affectionate, but only when your owner desires it. Be silent and still and obedient otherwise.

Don't be needy. Don't need. Don't want. Wants are for people. Your only wish is to please your owner.

He didn't miss the nasty glare that the salesman shot him before putting his customer service smile back on his face. "Yes, this one is very affectionate, which isn't to everyone's taste. Perhaps you'd be more interested in this Romantic…"

B211 fought down the whine in his throat as the customer removed her hand from his chin and walked over to one of the other Romantics, A797. He watched as A797 flawlessly executed each position, all with a smile that was just loving enough without seeming desperate. Just the way they'd all been taught.

God, B211 hated him.

B211 knew he could be the best Romantic in this whole damn showroom, if only he could be given a chance. He'd worked so hard at his training and conditioning, absorbing everything thrown at him, always striving to be the best in the room. He knew his quality -- he was eager to please any sort of master in any way they wished, ready and willing to become whatever they wanted him to be. Their lover, their fantasy, their toy, their shoulder to cry on. He was confident he could do it all.

And yet, here he was, left in the lurch yet another day. If things didn't look up, he'd spend another night in his cold bunk. Another night where his training headphones whispered to him about how much he craved touch and affection. Another day where he had to fight down his cravings so he didn't scare off potential owners. Another failure, another denial.

It was enough to make him want to pull his hair out, if that wouldn't absolutely ruin his appeal.

"I think I'm going to talk to your handler about another course of conditioning. I don't know how it's possible, but you've still got too much willfulness in that head of yours."

B211 scrambled down into a kneel, touching his head to the floor, as soon as he realized that the salesman was addressing him. "My sincere apologies, sir. I will endeavor to do better," he said, reciting one of his hundreds of programmed phrases.

"I can tell when a pet's more concerned with his own needs instead of the customer's," said the salesman disdainfully. "Honestly, you could probably do with another round on the Drip, wash that right out of your head. I think that's what I'm gonna recommend."

"Yes, sir," said B211, his inner elbow twinging with the feel of a phantom needle. He knew very well that he should accept whatever medication, training, or punishment he was given, as it was all to make him a better pet. But he hated the way the Drip made him feel, the way his mind was so slow and dim now, compared to --

No, that wasn't right. His mind had always been slow and dim. That's why he was well suited to being a pet. That's what they'd told him, why he'd signed up. He was slow, and dim, and unable to cope with life, unable to pretend to be a person. So he'd done the right thing and signed up. Instead of an endless cycle of pain and disappointment, he'd receive unconditional love and affection from an owner who truly wanted him. All he had to do was follow his training. Simple instructions. Practice these poses. Recite these mantras. Speak politely. Let go of your wants. Let go of your needs. Be perfect.

That was all he had to do.

He didn't actually remember signing up, of course, because the Drip had erased his memories (how many times). It was best for a pet to not remember (what didn't they want him to remember) so he could be blank and empty for his owner to fill with love (what was he before he was blank).

(was he ever loved)

He shouldn't be thinking those thoughts. That's why he wasn't getting bought. Stupid, stupid.

"Well, B211? Do you have a problem with that?" the salesman demanded, pulling him back to reality.

"No, sir."

"Oh, I think you do. I can tell you have something to say. Out with it."

It was a trap. It was always a trap. He'd fallen into it before, he thought, although his memories of those times were hazy and tinged with pain. "I think whatever you and my handler decide for me would be best, sir."

He was being hauled upwards by his shirt, the salesman glaring down at him. "That's your problem. You shouldn't think. You should just get it right."

B211's mind searched for a better answer. Slow, too slow. "I want whatever training I'm given, sir. I want to be the best possible pet for my owner. I trust in my handlers to make me the best pet I can be."

"Better," he sneered.

The ring of a bell indicated another customer had arrived, sparing B211 the salesman's wrath for now. This particular salesman always liked to take it out on the pets when they weren't selling like he thought they should be.

All he wanted was to be touched and loved. Wasn't that what he had signed up for? He couldn't remember, of course, but that's the only thing it could have been. Why didn't anyone see that? Why didn't anyone pick him?

Maybe the salesman was right. Maybe he should go back on the Drip. He was thinking too much. Of course he was right -- his handlers always knew what was best for him.

"Oh, I'm not sure a Romantic is what I'm looking for, exactly," said a voice that was so strangely familiar. "I don't need -- I mean, I don't really have those kinds of needs."

B211 strained to hear the conversation in the other room, beyond the curtain separating the Romantic showroom from the rest of the pet store. That voice. He didn't know why, but wanted to hear more of that voice.

"There are a lot of unfortunate misconceptions about Romantics, and I'd say that the primary one is that they're only for sex," said the salesman. "That's absolutely not the case -- maybe ten years ago, but modern Romantics are so much more. They actually have much of the same programming as our platonic Companions, and even some Domestic capabilities. They're the perfect choice for a busy man who wants a little love in his life."

"Well, I guess it wouldn't hurt to take a look at them…"

The customer pushed aside the curtain leading to the Romantic showroom, and B211's heart stopped.

The man was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark skin and darker curls, and large, sparkling eyes that he could get lost in. He was handsome, very much so, but that wasn't what caused B211's breath to catch in his throat -- he saw many handsome customers. No, there was something about this one that ran deeper than his looks. B211 was seized with an inexplicable, undeniable desire -- this man absolutely had to buy him. This man should be his owner.

(But pets weren't supposed to have desires.)

The customer was staring at B211, too, but not in the way he would prefer. He looked as if he had just seen a ghost.

"Oh, I wouldn't recommend that one," said the salesman. "He's a bit more high maintenance than our other Romantics, and you're looking for a pet that's very independent, right? I'm sure a lawyer doesn't have that much time to spend entertaining a pet, which is why I'm going to recommend this model…"

The customer, the lawyer, let himself be pulled away from B211's case, and B211 was filled with bubbling rage towards the salesman. Something flashed in his mind, a memory, perhaps, of fighting, of kicking and screaming, of having to be held down by four people as the IV was inserted into his arm --

No, that wasn't right. That wasn't right at all. He couldn't hate the salesman, or the handlers, who only wanted the best for him. If the lawyer wasn't a good fit…

He swallowed the lump in his throat. Why was this so important? He'd been passed up by so many people, what was one more to him?

B211 couldn't help but watch the lawyer out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he seemed bored with the other models the salesman was showing him. Distracted. He glanced back at B211, who quickly lowered his eyes to the floor.

"I think I have just the right fit for you!" said a bubbly saleswoman, emerging from the front of the store. She was leading along a man in a slouchy t-shirt and jeans, who was looking around the Romantics showroom in awe, as though he'd never seen so many pets. The saleswoman stopped in front of B211's case. "He's a refurb, so he's available at a discount! He's very affectionate and quite intelligent for a pet."

"Well, he's not bad looking," said this new customer. "Pet, introduce yourself."

B211 snapped to practiced attention. "Hello, sir, my designation is B211, and I'm a Romantic designation with additional Companion training. I enjoy cooking, old movies, and cuddling, and I'm always open to new adventures!"

"Hmm, I'm not sure. He's not really my type. I was hoping for something a little more… demure, do you have anything like that?"

"Certainly, sir, right this way!"

Normally, B211 would be devastated at losing another prospective buyer, but this time, all he could think about was the lawyer. The lawyer who was currently standing in front of the showroom's most expensive pet, being given the hard sell.

"…and he can do anything you want, sir. He'll be there for you when you need companionship, and quiet and out of the way when you need space. He's fully automated and intelligent enough to serve as a personal assistant or run a household. And when it comes to his Romantic skillset… he's very easy to please, and very eager and capable of pleasing others. If this pet is within your budget, I think he'd be the best suited to your needs, sir."

His needs. What were the lawyer's needs? Pets didn't have needs, couldn't have needs. B211 knew he could do whatever that so-called premium model could. But the lawyer probably had more than enough money to go premium, and why would he buy a discounted refurb when he could buy a brand-new luxury model?

"He does seem like an ideal fit…" said the lawyer.

"Would you like to spend a little time with him? I'm sure once you do, you won't be leaving this showroom alone."

"Well… maybe… but I'm still interested in that one. The one I saw when I first came in."

And the lawyer looked straight at B211.

It was impossible, wasn't it? Why would he be interested in B211 when a premium model was an option? Did he actually recognize B211's value? Was that why he'd been so drawn to this man as an owner?

The lawyer walked his way. B211 tried his hardest to read the expression on his face -- an essential skill for Romantics, to be able to read their master's smallest emotions -- but came up short. He couldn't tell what this man was thinking at all.

But his eyes looked kind. And B211 felt…

It was a feeling he couldn't place. It wasn't happy, or aroused, or quiet, or agreeable. B211 suspected it was one of those feelings he wasn't supposed to be having, one that the Drip was supposed to wash out of him.

"Are you sure, sir?" said the salesman, trailing after him. "This one is a refurb, you know. That's why he's on a discount."

"A refurb? Do you know why he was returned?" The lawyer's eyes never left B211.

"Ah, his original owner simply found a new relationship, and was displeased with the amount of attention this Romantic required. He's been wiped of those memories, and we've done our best to train out his unfortunate need for attention, of course, but he'd be a risk compared to our premium models, which can all be customized just for you for only a small additional fee…"

The lawyer wasn't paying attention to the salesman at all as he continued his pitch. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind.

And B211 finally placed what that strange feeling was. Safe. The lawyer made him feel safe. It wasn't something he had felt in training. It was something much older, something he shouldn't remember.

"I want to buy this one," said the lawyer abruptly, cutting off the salesman's patter.

The salesman couldn't hide his shock. "Are you sure, sir? There's no rush. We'd be happy to put a model on hold for you for a small deposit if you'd like more time to make up your mind."

"I've made up my mind. I want this one." The uncertainty on his face from a moment ago was gone, his voice firm. Firm enough that B211 dared to hope.

"If you're certain, then… I'll draw up the paperwork. But keep in mind that we don't accept returns on refurbished pets."

"I won't be returning him."

And the lawyer smiled at B211, actually smiled.

And someone had finally seen him. Someone wanted him. Someone was going to love him.

All he had to do was not screw it the fuck up.

Masterlist > Next

[whumpback-wail]

When whumpee went missing and was presumed dead. Everyone was sure whumpee was dead after weeks of searching with no results, not even a body. Their friends and family grieved for them, held a funeral, and eventually they all moved on. All except lover.

Lover would still search for whumpee because no body means a chance that whumpee might still be alive, even if the chances seem to dwindle with each day that passed.

One day whumper came to meet up with lover. Their respective higher ups were thinking of a truce between the opposing sides. Whumper had a masked bodyguard come along, while lover was there on their own, confident in their combat capabilities. Negotiations did not go smoothly and lover tried to attack whumper, only to have the bodyguard step in.

Lover felt like they knew this fighting style. It was familiar as if it was a person he fought or sparred with previously. Lover managed to unmask the bodyguard only to find themself face to face with whumpee.

But whumpee didn't seem to recognize lover.