#human weapon trope

[pouringoutmythoyghtsbefore1drown]

what does human weapon mean in the whump genre? Because at first i was like “ah yes… sentient weapon? like a sword with consciousness?” but i think upon seeing further posts i’m incorrect.

I tried to look it up but still i am confused. Does the human weapon need to be physically altered to be a weapon (in the sense of having a gun arm or something)?

[whumpeteerscrankli]

Whumpees who are difficult to love.

Whumpees who have done terrible things (which they may or may not have enjoyed doing).

Whumpees who refuse to/can’t change for the better.

Whumpees who aren’t perfect victims.

Caretakers who desperately try to love Whumpee.

Caretakers who wish for Whumpee to try to redeem themselves.

Caretaker’s hopes being crushed when Whumpee does something that reminds them that why whumpee was once Whumper’s favorite.

Caretakers who grow tired of caring for someone as hopeless as Whumpee.

Caretakers whose patience is running out.

[the-bar-sinister]

Human weapon in training whump

Whumpee who isn’t allowed to cry.

Whumpee who is punished whenever they show an emotion that whumper doesn’t like.

Whumpee who slowly loses connection with all their own emotions and desires.

Whumpee who is so effectively emotionally destroyed by the time whumper hands them a gun that they cannot even think to turn it on themselves much less on whumper

[lumpywhump]

a living weapon that isn't quite done with their training yet.

Weapon is allowed to go on missions with their handler, the thought of escape crossing their mind once or twice but not enough for them to act on it.

When handler commands weapon to do something and weapon knows they'll do it but that doesn't mean they're not going to drag their feet and complain the whole time.

weapon who's gone on enough missions that the police can recognize them. Weapon knowing that if they ever escaped they would just be arrested.

weapon who still has a personality but their body responds to commands faster than they can think.

onlookers watching as weapons personality slowly fades away as they finish their training.

[lemonwrap]

Thinking about how in some ways, Ghost has been taught to be “bad” pretty much his entire life. Ghost’s father showed him anger and cruelty. Roba inadvertently taught Ghost how to use that anger and cruelty. Shepherd capitalized on that and crafted Ghost into a nearly perfect soldier.

The 141 is the first group of people that truly don’t see Ghost as just a weapon or a means to an end.

[the-dump-of-whump]

Weapon whumpee whose handlers are kind and supportive. They’re their caretakers, their friends. They’re a shoulder to lean on they keep them safe.

But weapon Whumpee still searches for greener pastures, ones where they’re more than a weapon.

So they switch sides, after all the other side has always been touted as being soooo good.

And then things get oh so much worse.

They’re still a weapon. But now their handlers hate them and how couldn’t they after all they’ve done. The new handlers are rough and cruel. They insist on retraining maybe even running tests and “questioning” them. Whumpee is now reduced to even less of a living being than they were before.

Whumpee’s only wish is to go back but how could they now that they’re a traitor.

[whump-place]

Living weapon Whumpees that were conditioned to think that that was just how the world saw them. As monsters.

And that the only way to redeem themselves was serving their owner.

After all, Whumpee was just a weapon, a mere object that couldn't think or do anything right on their own.

And humans were the smart ones, they had brains, and neurons, and all of those things that made them rational. Humans always knew the best way to use Whumpee.

Humans got to do anything they wanted to Whumpee, because that was the right thing.

Right?

[forwhump]

a/n; this one’s pretty fucked up :-; more rape & more murder but it’s a story about a sex slave & a weapon so that’s just kinda what you get ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ my bad !

tw/cw: rape, noncon, mutilation, dismemberment, decapitation, murder, grievous bodily harm, misgendering, transphobia, psychological torture, urine, gore, bodily fluids

living weapon whumpee, multiple whumpers, revenge, military

There has not been a time, since his creation, that Silas has been above ground.

Everything that’s been done to him, everything that he’s done, it’s happened hundreds of feet below the ground in the concrete labyrinth of the district. Every surgery, every slaughter, every field test.

Even the fuckin’ field tests. The field tests are training exercises, combat training, but they don’t trust Silas above ground to participate in them. They’re probably right not to. They’re smarter, sometimes, than Silas will ever give them credit for.

Within the labyrinth there are these arenas, these massive, open spaces made up to look like a world Silas has never seen. There’s a number of them, made to look like different practical terrain; forests and deserts and small villages and mountains and cities. It would be impossible for Silas to fathom if he ever had the time or the means to sit and try and fathom it. He’d almost think he left the district were it not for the concrete sky, hundreds of feet above his head.

He didn’t always mind the field tests. It was a chance to stretch his legs. The enemy was always played by military recruits, young and green. Silas isn’t sure if they know what they’re getting into when they enter the arena, if they are briefed on exactly what Silas is, but none of them ever walk out again. Their grieving families will bury a flag and a handful of teeth on Silas’ most generous day.

Barbarity is encouraged. Bloodshed is lauded. It’s always a slaughter, but it’s expected of him. It’s always been a good way to blow off some steam, even if he never walks away unscathed. He gets to use his hands.

But the rules had changed since they’d taken Wren from him.

The rules have been the same for every field test so far — kill or be killed. The recruits get weapons and machinery and supplies and dogs; Silas doesn’t even get a shirt. He gets a pair of prison grey joggers and his own two hands. Kill or be killed.

They didn’t tell him they’d added civilians.

He doesn’t realize that anything’s wrong for an entire three days. He soldiers through the rainforest arena and kills recruits with tooth and talon. When the lights get shut down for the third night, nighttime in the wilderness, Silas has become that thing the field tests always stoke to life in him; Silas isn’t human anymore. It slides under his skin, that feral, rabid thing, and it rips limbs from screaming bodies, it peels skin back with his teeth. When the lights get shut down for the third night, Silas’ hair is glued to his back and his throat with the thick layer of blood that crusts his skin. None of it is his own. Not a single recruit had gotten a single shot in yet. It was going exceptionally well. Silas should have been suspicious.

He should’ve fuckin’ known. He should’ve done better. He should’ve been faster. When he finally sees Wren again, his Wren, bathed in the flickering firelight of the enemy camp, all the human parts of him are reignited with a screaming rage and a sort of guilt that makes Silas feel heavy. He should’ve known something was wrong. He should’ve been here three days ago.

The surviving soldiers are set up around the fire, cocky and comfortable. Wren’s in the dirt at their feet.

Fuck, Silas had missed him. Silas had missed him in a big, impossible way, and he can’t even be happy to see him because Silas wishes more than anything that Wren was not here. Wren would be safer almost anywhere but here.

He’s dressed like a child and his hair is down, grimy and matted, pooling in the dirt around him. He’s face down, limp, and Silas has to blink red mist from his vision. Before he’s close enough to stop it, one of the soldiers stands, pulls his belt, and pisses in Wren’s hair.

Wren doesn’t move or moan or otherwise react in any way. He’s still limp — he’s so still, actually, almost unnaturally still, and Silas is — he can’t be too late, Wren can’t be —

Another soldier stands, some blond puke, and he turns Wren onto his side with his foot before he boots him in the stomach.

Weakly, Wren groans. Weakly, softly, but he groans. He isn’t dead.

Silas is gonna cause a fuckin’ bloodbath.

“Stop passing out on us,” the blond groans. “You got a long night ahead of you, girl.”

Wren doesn’t make another sound and the recruit kicks him again, so hard he’s forced onto his back. He groans softly.

A soldier with a shock of red hair spits in the dirt next to him as he stands. “I know how to wake her up.” His grin glints in the firelight and the blond laughs. He spits again as he takes a handful of Wren’s hair, coiling it around his fist, hauling him across the dirt and a safe distance away from the bonfire. He whistles back over his shoulder at the other recruits, watching him with varying degrees of obvious humour. “C’mere. Hold her open for me. Hold her down when she starts fighting and I’ll let you have a turn when I’m done.”

No.

How can this keep happening? How can this be somebody’s life?

There’s something casual, something genuinely amused in the way the recruits laugh between themselves as they splay their hands over Wren’s skin, as they hold his limp body into the dirt and he whimpers. The redhead tugs his belt free before he kneels between Wren’s legs, shoving the frilly hem of his little dress up and around his ribcage. He settles over him, his knuckles white against the purpling bruise of Wren’s skin. His answering groan is loud and low and satisfied.

Silas can hear when Wren regains consciousness because of how horribly and primally he screams.

All of the recruits laugh, but it’s the blond that coos, pleased, “there she is.”

When Silas breaks the tree line it’s his shadow that gives him away. One of the soldiers, holding one of Wren’s thighs, looks up, distracted, and the double take he does would be comical if Silas weren’t out for blood. He jumps to his feet, fumbles for his gun, green and unprepared. He cries, “what the fuck is that?”

Silas grins, but it isn’t nice.

The rest of the recruits look up in militant unison but react quickly with varying degrees of unrestrained horror. Almost every one of them scrambles to their feet and for their weapons. Except, of course, the redheaded puke knelt between Wren’s thighs. He stills, a picture of cruelty.

Silas cracks his knuckles.

Wren’s head lolls against the dirt and he finds Silas through the idiot cavalry. This’ll be easy; the recruits are always just as evil as the soldiers — a requirement of them, apparently — but they aren’t nearly as dangerous. They aren’t trained, polished, quick in the way the soldiers are, they aren’t used to Silas the same. This will be embarrassing for them.

Wren looks up at Silas with huge, wet eyes and the way the relief crests across his face would probably make Silas cry if he were capable of it.

“What the hell is that thing?” The recruits are shouting. “Who are you? Back up! Back the fuck up!”

Silas barely hears them. To Wren, he says, “I’m sorry I’m late.”

Wren tips his head back as he sobs.

The redhead looks down at him quickly as he hisses, “what the fuck is that?”

He folds an arm over his face and his chest hitches as he cries into the grime.

The recruit tries to grab him, to pry his arm from his face, hisses something else like “look at me when I’m talking to you. What the fuck is going on?”, but Silas is across the camp in a second and he takes his ginger head in both hands. The recruit flails, pulls away from Wren, and as soon as he does Silas turns, trying to shield his Wren from the splatter with his bulk. He crushes the redhead’s skull between his hands.

The noise it makes is like a crack of lightning.

The sort of silence that’s close behind unrecoverable trauma settles over the camp and Silas grins so widely something clicks in his jaw. He’s merciful — the recruits won’t have to live with this for long.

“What are you?” The blond asks, and his voice is thin.

Silas cracks his neck. “Does it matter?”

A different recruit swallows so thickly that Silas can hear it. But he’s trying to be brave, so he says, “back up, freak.”

Silas does not, in fact, back up. The blond is standing close and he doesn’t react quick enough when Silas grabs him by the collar — he panics, flailing as Silas lifts him clean off the ground. It kind of wakes up the recruits, who lift guns and take aim, but what’s the worst they can do to him? Really?

It’s one of the worst things about these men, about this place. It’s one of the reasons Silas hates them so viscerally it’s become interwoven into his DNA. Silas, in a way, gets off easy — Silas just gets shot, and he can take a fuckin’ bullet. It’s the least he can do. Wren isn’t so lucky. They aren’t afraid of Wren. He’s small and he can’t fight back the way Silas can. What’s the worst thing they can do to a fuckin’ machine? They’ll shut him down, and he’ll begin again. Wren is vulnerable.

He pries a handgun from the blond’s flailing grip hands and forces the barrel down the back of his throat. He grabs at Silas’ wrist, frantic, and Silas grins at him as he pulls the trigger.

He bursts into blood and viscera and the other recruits explode into shouting and panic. “Get back!” The brave one shouts, and he makes the grievous mistake of getting too close. Not within reaching distance, but still too close. “Get the fuck back!”

“What are you gonna do?” Silas asks, raising his eyebrows. “Shoot me?” The recruit lifts his gun, a threat, and Silas grins at him. “Tell you what. Let me do you one better,” and he points the gun down, firing a round into his own foot. It crackles with a pain that the simmering rage quickly dissolves.

The soldier gapes, hesitating, and he only hesitates for half a moment but it’s a full moment too long. Silas raises the gun again. “Now it’s your turn,” he says, and unloads three rounds between his eyes.

He drops to the dirt and another recruit steps over him quickly, into Silas’ personal space.

Silas doesn’t take kindly to that.

He takes him by the jaw and wrenches his mouth open. As he tries to scream around Silas’ hands, Silas hooks his fingers behind each row of his teeth and rips his face in half through the middle. His throat is still working as Silas pushes his body out of the way with the side of his foot.

“What the fuck?” A recruit cries, standing too close, splattered with blood that isn’t his own. Silas reaches out to him with his free hand and tears out his windpipe with bloody fingers. As he chokes, Silas breaks his nose back into his brain with the base of his gun. His eyes are rolled back into his head when he dies.

There are four surviving recruits, and they try to scatter. Silas lets them try, because he enjoys the panic, but he doesn’t let them get very far. Eight rounds, one for each knee. There are cries of pain and noises of impact and Silas laughs loudly.

He weaves his way across the camp slowly, tauntingly, and he kills them one at a time. He crushes both hands and the throat of the first recruit; he removes both hands and the throat from the second. The third is decapitated, and not quickly or cleanly; Silas removes his head with force, and the way his skin splits is like wet paper.

The last recruit had pissed in Wren’s hair.

Silas approaches him with the unhurried stalk of a predator. The recruit trembles, trying to scramble away from Silas, but he’d been shot in both knees and he’d fallen hard, the bones of his calf poking out from his flesh in opposite directions.

“That’s gotta hurt,” Silas says.

“Please,” he’s begging, and his voice is trembling, “please, please, don’t — don’t —“

Silas brings his foot down on his fractured leg as hard as he can. Puts all of his brawn and bulk into it.

The recruit tips his head back against the dirt and screams at the concrete sky.

Silas lets him scream. Who gives a fuck? He crouches next to him and takes his left arm by the elbow. The soldier screams again, tries to pull out of his grip, and Silas rips his arm out from the socket of his shoulder.

He shrieks at a pitch that Silas finds kind of irritating and he reaches across the recruit to grab his other arm and pull him over onto his stomach, face down in the dirt. He breaks his right arm off at the elbow.

He screams again and he’s screaming still when Silas stands to toe him back onto his back. As the recruit screams, Silas shoves down the waistband of his joggers, pulls out his dick, and pisses in his mouth. It’s only fair.

He flails with what’s left of his right arm and chokes in panic. It makes Silas grin. When he snaps his waistband back into place the recruit stares up at him with a look that Silas has come to recognize as resigned hatred. It never gets old. Weak and wet, he drawls, “they told us we didn’t have to worry about her dog.”

Silas raises his eyebrows. “They lied.”

The recruit chokes out a sound that would probably be a laugh if all the blood in his body weren’t seeping into the earth beneath him. “C’mon, man,” he tries. “Don’t — don’t. Please. Come on.”

Silas lifts the gun.

The recruit inhales quickly. “Please. Come on. Please.”

“Eat shit,” Silas tells him sincerely, and he empties the gun into his face.

[chaotic-orphan]

Whumptober No.7

Only for Emergencies

Unconventional weapon // magic with a cost // "It's us or them."

*~*~*~*~*

“Leader,” Medic cried, the usually stoic man so flustered as he half dragged a semi-conscious Rogue through the streets and into cover. “We’re not going to outrun them. Not like this and they’re gaining on us.”

Second strayed to the alleyway across from Medic and Leader, firing shards of ice like a canon at the enemies, crafting a thick wall of ice and making some cover. Even Leader could see they were tiring too, and their eyes, despite themselves turned to Whumpee.

Whumpee, sensing the weight of Leader’s gaze, raised their head. “No,” they said, shaking their head. “No, Leader, you promised.”

“I promised it would only be for emergencies, Whumpee. This is an emergency.”

“We can still—”

“We can’t do shit!” Medic cut in, growling. “I am at my limit. So is Second, Rogue is barely conscious and the enemy don’t seem to be stopping anytime soon.”

Whumpee stepped back away from them, as if slapped. The betrayal that crossed their expression pulled at Leader’s heartstrings, but they couldn’t disagree with Medic. He was right. They were at their limit. They didn’t expect Villain to come to the exchange with an entire army.

“This is Villain we’re talking about,” Whumpee whispered, tears pricking their eyes. “If I— If I…”

“If you don’t then we’re as good as dead,” Medic snapped.

Leader, always the gentle touch, walked over to Whumpee, taking their hands in theirs and getting on their knees. Whumpee stiffened as Leader looked up at them with tears in their eyes.

“It’s us or them, Whumpee,” Leader whispered. “Villain chose their side. They chose to betray us and they chose to lie to us about this exchange and their numbers. They don’t care if we live or die!”

They care if I live or die, Whumpee thought, and the guilt speared their heart. They couldn’t hold their life above the lives of their team, above Rogue and Medic and Second and Leader. Then they’d be no better than Villain.

But still… Villain loved Whumpee, they would never ask this of them.

Whumpee pulled their hand from Leader’s. Leader closed their eyes, their chin dropping to their chest defeated.

“You know what it will do to me,” Whumpee whispered, but they felt like they were screaming, every breath was an effort. Leader slowly rose to their feet. They dragged their gaze up to Whumpee’s, apologetic and guilty.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Whumpee swallowed the lump in their throat.

They were… they really were just going to let Villain win, out of their own pathetic selfishness but— if Whumpee unleashed their ability it wouldn’t just be Villain and their army in danger, it would be their team too, the world if they didn’t stop Whumpee in time, and Leader knew that.

Medic held his head in his hands, fisting his hair and yelled a long, low guttural: “FUCK!”

Leader placed a hand on Whumpee’s shoulder and Whumpee met their yellow gaze. Whumpee recoiled, jolting back but it was too late. They were under Leader’s command now, and their body wasn’t their own.

“Whumpee… I need you to use your power so we can escape,” Leader said. Whumpee’s expression bled blank until they were just staring like a zombie at Leader.

Medic raised his head, eyes wide. “Leader? Leader! What did you do?!”

Whumpee walked past Leader, past Medic and Rogue and out into the open as the ice wall broke, a green, ghoulish hue overtaking their body. Leader set their jaw.

“What I had to. Now, let’s go.”

[kabie-whump]

♡Febuwhump Day 26: "Help them." + Human Weapon (alt) ♡

@febuwhump

A combo post? Sure.

Content: betrayal, human weapon whumpee, sleeper agent whumpee, blood, left for dead

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

"Why are you all just standing there? Help them!"

Leader's grip is firm as they grab Caretaker's shoulder, stopping them from running to Whumpee's side.

"That's not Whumpee," Leader says.

Whumpee, lying curled up on the floor in front of the team, lets out a pitiful sob. There's a puddle of blood under them and it's growing too fast but no one is doing anything and Caretaker wants to scream.

"What do you mean?" Whumpee tries to sit up but fails as they put weight on their clearly broken wrist. They settle for staring up at Leader, eyes wide and full of tears. "It is me. Please, I need help!"

Laeder's hand is shaking on Caretaker's shoulder.

"This is what Whumper does," Leader says, their voice haunted. "Whumpee doesn't even know it, but there's a monster planted in their mind, and it's already taken over. It's sleeping right now but it'll wake up the second we take them inside and then we're all done for."

"But they're hurt," Caretaker insists. "We have to help them. We don't know that they're going to turn on us."

"Why else would Whumper just give them back to us? I'd rather not wait until one of us is being stabbed in our sleep to find out."

Whumpee is outright crying now, something Caretaker has never seen them do so openly. "I won't! I promise I won't! I'll be good. Please, I just wanna go home. It hurts so bad."

Leader turns away, pulling Caretaker with them. "Trust me," they whisper. "I've been down this road before. It's not worth it. They can't be saved."

"But-"

"Whumpee's dead. That's a ghost."

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

[paingoes]

Destroyer - Castle Damon

(Masterlist)

hi guys. this is the second bonus chapter. heavy content warnings on this one, going really into darkfic and body horror territory. its not particularly explicit imo but the suggestion is there. this section will be referenced in the main story but its not a necessary read. proceed at your own risk.

(Content: noncon body modification, human experimentation, body horror, amputation, torture, minor sensory deprivation)

======== 

“Just a day trip. Quit fussing,” The doctor gently elbowed Simon. Simon fussed anyway, pulling away from him. They were standing outside the doors to the fortress, awaiting the guards. Delta stood a little behind them, not speaking. The students and scientists that worked beneath the pair were waiting even further back by the car. Nobody wanted to get closer to the Castle Damian than they had to be. The facility had a violent and twisted shape, its dark turrets scraping against the pale sky.

Simon seemed to be considering something very thoughtfully. He pushed the stack of papers he was holding into Martino’s hands, then turned to face Delta. He pulled him away for some privacy. 

“Here. Wear this,” Simon removed a blindfold from his bag. He tied it snugly around Delta’s eyes, cutting off his vision. Delta frowned. He hated having to rely on somebody else to guide him around; it put him in too vulnerable a position. And Simon knew he hated it.

“Did I do something wrong, sir?” He asked quietly.

“Uh…no. I just think your performance might be addled somewhat by your surroundings,” Simon said hastily.

That didn’t make any sense, but Delta didn’t argue with him. Simon held his wrist, guiding him back in front of the gates. The guards finally arrived and the group entered.

“Welcome!” The head scientist cried loudly, but not necessarily warmly, “It’s such a privilege.”

Fuck yeah it is, Delta thought. He tried hard not to be arrogant, but whenever the subject of psychokinesis came up, he had to try even harder. He was the best student that the Institute had ever produced. Even in the years since it had shut down, all its competitors were still stuck playing catch-up. They’d never manage, of course. The Empire’s psychic dominance was, in a word, unchallenged.

That didn’t mean the other start-ups weren’t doing interesting things, though. They had to be, otherwise their group wouldn’t be here. Sure, they’d never outperform in terms of raw power, but there were innovative ways to take advantage of even small scale psychokinetics.

“Right this way. As we’re going to the chamber, you’ll probably see some of our work through the panels. Feel free to ask any questions, we’re all about open source here,” The scientist talked on and on. The doors creaked noisily as they opened. Simon moved forward, pulling Delta along with him.

There were unmistakable gasps from the group, followed by murmurs. This was too cruel. Delta lifted his head up a little bit, trying to steal a peek through the bottom of the blindfold. Simon immediately shoved it back down, forcing him to look only at the rug. An uneasy silence set in. The students stopped their chattering. As they neared the end, nervous whispers replaced it.

“Here we are,” the scientist said. Delta could tell that he was displeased at the reaction the group had given him. Delta didn’t have long to consider this. Simon had him kneel in the center of the chamber, now undoing the blindfold. He blinked at the sudden rush of light. It looked like the inside of a reactor.

Simon had briefed him beforehand and now briefed him again. He’d been requested for a calibration test - and to experiment with some new technology. He couldn’t help but feel a little nostalgic. New experiments reminded him of his childhood, before they’d had his abilities down to a science. He glanced briefly at Dr.Martino to see if the doctor shared his enthusiasm. He too had a wistful look on his face. 

The calibration test was supposed to be easy. They needed Delta to provide the input for different power levels. He could consistently produce and maintain levels with a precision to the third decimal place, an astonishing achievement. Most psychics struggled to stay within the same tenth place. It wouldn’t take much effort from him because they weren’t even high power levels. All he’d have to do was concentrate and hold steady. He slowed his breathing as Simon moved to undo the collar.

He blinked as the oblivion washed over him. For some reason, this time the power filled him with a strange heartbreak. Tears rolled down his face. He touched a hand to his eye, confused. Why? 

“Delta?” Simon asked, noticing his expression.

“I’m okay, sir,” He confirmed. His powers could be funny that way, always a bit unpredictable when off leash. He didn’t think much of it. His vision had gone white, picking up the formscape around him. He felt around the room, picking up the hard steel of the machinery. Then, perhaps unwisely, he snuck his feelers out wider, peering into the hall. 

The shapes there did not make sense to him. They were lumpy, amorphous. He sensed life within them, but they were in no shape he knew. He focused in on a certain one and knew it was mostly neural tissue, a brain spread out beneath a glass case. It was alive. It still had its eyes. They moved suddenly, as if sensing his presence. He recoiled in horror, but was unable to stop himself. He’d already expanded and the knowledge came all at once. Here, something strung up by its arms, a web of wires emerging from the torso, eating away at its skin. The next one had no arms, no legs. It had a face, though, and that face was wretched. All of them in a permanent state of dissociative shock. What was this? They were all still alive in there. The machines around them moved indifferently, prodding, puncturing, drawing more blood, more energy, more life from their mutilated bodies. He wanted to scream. 

“The test, please, son,” Simon said impatiently.

Delta nodded. He forced himself calm, producing the desired outputs. He wasn’t even in that room anymore, but he could control what happened inside of it if he focused. They started low, 5.000, 10.000, 25.000. He worked up to 1200.000 without getting throw off. Then he heard it.

I see you.

God no. He didn’t want to hear them, but he didn’t have a choice. They all began to speak at once.

They let you keep your body whole. What did I do wrong? Who are you? I want to look at you. Talk to me. Tell us your name.

No, no, no. Delta began to twitch. 

“Can we stop, please?” He asked quietly.

Stop what? You think you’re too good to talk to us? You’re one of us. They’ll get you too, one day.

He knew there must be hundreds of them locked out throughout the castle. He felt his stomach lurch.

“No,” Dr.Martino said, “Finish up.”

Delta scratched at his own skin to keep from snapping. 

1500.000. 2000.000. 5000.000. 

“That’s perfect,” the head scientist said. Delta felt a chill as he spoke. He felt the others freezing along with him. What on earth had he put them through? Delta felt hatred so real it scared him. He was glad when Simon switched the collar back on. The voices stopped — and he was afraid of what he might do.

Delta recoiled. Simon said they wanted to try the new tech on him. He’d been calm at the time, but now? What were they going to do to him? They wouldn’t sign him away like this, surely? 

“Sir…” He gripped Simon’s arm, hard.

Simon hesitated. He looked back at Dr.Martino, who had no reservations.

“You’re not going to cave to him again, are you?” Dr.Martino sneered. 

“Don’t argue, Delta,” Simon chided him. In a lower voice, he added, “I won’t let them hurt you.”

Delta calmed, just barely. His ears were still ringing from the power discharge. The Damian scientists had wheeled in their materials. There was a device that looked an awful lot like a helmet, but with wires poking out of the sides. 

The scientists didn’t speak to or warn him before strapping it onto his head. He gave a soft whine in protest. The sound would’ve normally embarrassed him, but he was so shaken up, still seeing the awful contours of the things out in the hall. His dignity was the least of his worries. The helmet cut off his vision, which made the images he’d intercepted all the more vibrant in his mind’s eye. He moved his hands to his neck, a way to self-soothe. One of the scientists slapped his hands away, thinking he was trying to touch the helmet. It stung. He placed his hands in his lap.

“Test. Go,” One of them said. Then the shock.

He gasped. For three long seconds, he thought he was dying. All the energy had left him, all sense of self. He blinked, desperately, trying to see or to hear. Nothing. He choked back his own bile.

They removed the helmet. 

“Alright, we’ll let you know how it turns out. Thanks again. You guys want to stay for lunch or anything?” The head scientist asked.

“No. Not really.” Dr.Martino said.

Simon slipped the blindfold back onto Delta’s eyes. Was that it? Delta didn’t even know what just happened. He was not excited to be going back down the hall. He clung to Simon’s arm, trying extra hard not to look at the monstrosities around him. Somewhere down the line, he would feel bad for thinking of them as such. But in the moment, they terrified him. He wanted to be as far away as possible. Luckily, so did everyone else. 

Simon undid the blindfold once they were back in the car. He noticed the far out, haunted look in Delta’s eyes. Delta kept his sights on the snowy hills as they drove, not speaking or blinking.

“You saw, didn’t you?” Simon murmured.

Delta nodded, closing his eyes.

As he laid down to sleep that night, he swore he could still hear the whispers.

~~~

Tags: @catnykit @indigoviolet311 @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @defire

@scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

[phoenixcatch7]

If there's one thing I like more than time travel it's crossover reincarnation, so.

Botk link reincarnated as Damian Wayne.

An incredible weapon master of all types, but especially prodigious with a sword - he was beating knights at the age of 4 and with his memories as intact as they get for him I can see that goalpost moving even further (probably with traps and tricks, a 3yo doesn't exactly have great bodily control).

He's an excellent survivalist, agile, strong, durable, cunning and creative. He can move like a feather in the breeze, strike from behind with ease. His first kill, an animal, did not stir him as it did the other children. With his poise, grace, skills, obedience, he ought to be ra'as' finest assassin in the making, a jewel in the crown of the league.

Except he never speaks a word. Half his targets escape unscathed. He skates by true punishment on the merit of his skills and achievements in other missions. Testing has shown it is not a physical deformity that prevents his speech, but not even talia has been able to coaxe a word from him past his second birthday.

It is a defect ra'as is growing more and more frustrated by, as each attempt to fix these two final flaws ends in resounding failure. Less extreme solutions are running dry.

Talia fears those solutions. Her child does too, she knows. For them, there is a possible solution, more extreme than anything ra'as would tolerate.

She sends him out of the league. To his father.

To Gotham.

[whumpeteerscrankli]

Scientist Whumper has been working on his greatest achievement, a superhuman, for years. Initially, he had no reason for creating and enhancing Whumpee, aside from the usual “Research purposes” that motivated most of his other experiments.

Imagine how ecstatic he is to hear that a high-ranking government official is in need of protection. Imagine how pleased he is to be granted the opportunity to finally give Whumpee a purpose.

[the-bar-sinister]

Recovering whumpee who was bound for a long time, and has scars from where their bindings rubbed their skin raw.

Recovering whumpee who was bound for a long time and sometimes forgets they can use their full range of motion, instinctively keeping gestures small.

Recovering whumpee with scars from their binding who feels the memory of the pain, and rubs their scars as a nervous habit.

[lumpywhump]

a living weapon that considers practicing their skills as fun.... well, not our definition of fun, but you know what I mean.

a living weapon that has prefers using one type of weapon over another.

a living weapon that prefers long-range weapons, but whumper forces them to use short range weapons. That's what the men behind the weapon are for. Weapon is there for the more dangerous work.

a living weapon that gets to pick their weapons from the armory. Whumper watching as their eyes sparkle upon seeing (____).

[the-dump-of-whump]

Weapon whumpees in their last moments of sanity asking, begging, to be killed so that they can’t do anymore damage, so that they can’t hurt anyone else, so that they can’t be used anymore.

Better yet if there’s something stopping them from doing it themselves and they have to plead with caretaker to kill them.

Does caretaker do it? Does it hurt worse for whumpee to be dead or to see the wreckage they cause, the pain in their eyes? Does caretaker forsaken them too?