#not trusting reality

[linecrosser]

Febuwhump 2k25 - Day 5 - Not Trusting Reality

Shang Qinghua is sure he is halucinating, his feverish brain making things up. There is no way His King is worried about him, craddling him, right???

[macknus]

Febuwhump: Day Five

Prompt: Not Trusting Reality

Caretaker ran ahead of Team. They made sure Whumper wasn’t home before rushing in, the rest of the team clearing the house while Caretaker ran downstairs to the basement; to Whumpee.

They flicked on the light as they reached the bottom and gasped. Whumpee was chained to the back wall. Her arms were spread wide to her sides, shackled at the wrists while a thick metal band was wrapped around her throat. She was in scraps of clothing. Her bralette and what looked like boxer shorts.

She didn’t lift her head when the lights flickered. Fear grabbed Caretaker’s throat and forced their limbs forward, mumbling Whumpee’s name. “No, no, no. Whumpee, please… please don’t be dead.”

Caretaker grabbed her cheeks in his hands, lifting her heavy head. God she was so much skinnier than last time he saw her… what did— Whumper would pay for what he did to her. Caretaker would make sure he’d suffer.

Whumpee moaned. Caretaker’s heart fluttered in his chest and he gasped. “Whumpee, hey,” he said softly. “Whumpee it’s me. It’s Caretaker.”

Whumpee opened her eyes. For a moment she stared at him as if he were a ghost. Then recognition flashed across her eyes. “It’s me,” Caretaker continued. “I’m here with team. We’re here to rescue you.”

Whumpee’s eyes widened with fear. “No! No! NO! NO!” Whumpee screamed, thrashing in her restraints. “No! NO! NO! NO! I WAS GOOD! I WAS GOOD! PLEASE YOU PROMISED!”

Caretaker grabbed her, trying to still Whumpee’s jerking movements that looked painful. Whumpee’s head shot forward, neck straining as she gnashed her teeth at Caretaker going to bite him.

Caretaker recoiled. “Whumpee! It’s me! It’s real.”

“YOU PROMISED YOU WOULDN’T MAKE ME SEE THEM ANYMORE, PLEASE WHUMPER! PLEASE!” She wailed like a banshee. “I was good! I was good. I have been so good. I obeyed. I followed the rules. Why?! Why! Why! WHY! WHY!”

“Whumpe—”

Rage contorted Whumpee’s red face. “GET AWAY FROM ME!” She roared. Then she started growling and snapped her head back against the concrete wall of the basement. Caretaker lurched forward, putting a hand between her head and the wall.

“GET AWAY! GET AWAY!” She didn’t stop trying to slam her head against the wall. She was acting like a wild animal, thrashing in the chains that held her firm.

“Caretaker?” Leader asked as he descended the steps. He paused when his eyes found Whumpee. Caretaker turned his pleading gaze to Leader.

“Help me! I don’t know what he did. She— she… she doesn’t think it’s real. That we’re… actually here.”

Whumpee slackened when she saw Leader. All of a sudden her fight left her and she went boneless in the chains. Leader stepped in cautiously, a warm smile on his face.

“Hey, Whumpee. You remember me?”

“I was good,” she whimpered. “Please, don’t. I was good. I’ll be good. I’ll be… I’ll be better I promise.”

“Whumpee, it’s Leader,” Caretaker said, but Whumpee trembled in her chains. Tears welled behind her eyes as she kept her head bent. Submissive.

“Please. I was good. I’ll be good, Whumper, please.”

Leader and Caretaker froze. “Whumper… please stop. I can’t see them. I can’t see Caretaker, please, I was good.”

Rogue barrelled down the steps. “Guys, what’s the hold up?”

She was walking towards Whumpee before Whumpee could cry out or protest. She lifted her hands to the chains and they burned a radioactive red, melting the chains that held Whumpee to the wall. First on her hands and then the one with the collar around her neck.

Rogue looked at Caretaker pointedly. “Well? Grab her and let’s go.”

Whumpee looked up with wide eyes. “W-what?” Her hands fell heavy to her sides, slapping against her thighs. She glanced at Leader. “What’re you doing? Stop it! You— you never made them free me.”

“Whumpee, I’m not Whumper,” Leader said, his voice thicker than before.

“Don’t— Stop them! No! Get off ME!” Whumpee screamed as Caretaker picked her up bridal style. She thrashed in his hold, but he held her firm as she squirmed.

“Stop! STOP! NO! WHUMPER I DON’T WANT THIS! I DON’T— I’M SORRY!” She screamed as Caretaker walked past Leader and took to the stairs.

Leader stood frozen, staring at the place Whumpee was. Whumper had… Whumper had made her think that Leader was… Leader was him? A hand on his shoulder startled him and he glanced up to see Rogue, her face impassive but he could sense her unease.

“We’ll get her back, Leader. We’ll undo what Whumper did to make her think that you… are a threat.”

“I…” Leader began, but words caught in his throat. What could he even say?

“Come on,” Rogue said, turning him and pushing him ahead of her to the stairs. “Everything will be fine. We have her now. She’s safe.”

Leader couldn’t stop the knot of dread tying itself in his gut. Whumper would… he tightened his hands into fists and took a deep breath.

No. First, get Whumpee better. Then… then they can get revenge.

*~*~*~*~*

Tag-list: @whump-in-the-closet

[callaeidae3]

Febuwhump2025 Day 5: Not trusting reality

Shadows flick in and out of his vision, morphing into shapes of people he remembers but vanishing before he can be sure he even saw them in the first place.

Strange people with echoing voices. Unfamiliar surroundings. Feeling like he’s been drugged.

Who knows, maybe he has been.

That would explain why he’s sweating so much, right?

[whumpinthepot]

@febuwhump 2025. Day 5. Not trusting reality.

—

Whumper gives whumpee a heavy dose of psychedelic drugs before setting them free out into public. Whumper has a few friends planted around the area to further confuse whumpee when they try to ask for help, gaslighting whumpee into not knowing whats real or who to trust. Whumper keeps a close eye on them while they try to navigate the area without much luck as the drugs become more potent in their system. When whumpee is at their limit whumper interviens and brings them back.

[kybercrystals94]

The Defender (ch.5)

Febuwhump 2025 | Day 5 | Prompt: Not Trusting Reality

Read here on Ao3

<< Previous Chapter | Master Post | Next Chapter >>

Rated: G | Words: 2265

Character Ages

Omega (8)

The Batch (Chronological: 4.5 / Biological: 9)

Hunter thinks he is clever. He thinks that he can come back to the barracks after training with black eyes, bloody noses and split lips and explain that they are training injuries. But Crosshair is familiar with the work of fast swung, tight fisted, bony knuckles. He knows the weapon well, having wielded it and received it himself. 

And yet, as Hunter grins sheepishly and tells another kark lie, Crosshair won’t call him out. None of them will, although they all know the truth. Because words without actions behind them fix nothing. It’s better to just shove it down deep and ignore it, that’s what Crosshair has learned. Cruel words, punches, sharp elbows, pushes, and shoves don’t hurt unless you let them. 

Crosshair doesn’t let them. Not on the surface. His attackers would never know. 

Any pain he might feel he uses as fuel when he retaliates to make sure it hurts whoever it was that tried to hurt him. Enough times of that, and the regs mostly leave him alone now. 

Mostly. 

Truth be told, regs as a whole aren’t the problem. Most of them could not care less about enhanced, defective, or altered clones. Weird looks, side eyes, and staring might be their only crime. Because in a sea of sameness, difference will always stand out. But Crosshair doesn’t like to be watched or stared at. Not for his leaner frame and shock of white hair. The only time he might not mind, though he’d never admit it, is when he’s at target practice and he hits mark after mark after mark. 

He might not mind the wide eyed looks of surprise, awe and envy from his peers then. 

Because if he has to be different, then he’d better be the best at what makes him so. 

That is why Crosshair looks forward to specialized training, although he’d never say that to his brothers – especially Hunter. It had been hard at first, being separated; however, once Crosshair had made it known that he didn’t mind fighting back, fighting first, and fighting dirty, the problematic regs had backed off. That was Hunter’s problem. He only ever took the defensive, never the offensive. 

Hunter’s other problem is that he had been advanced to training with cadet’s older than himself. While Hunter never talked about the issues that he faced in his own training, Crosshair was observant enough to clock the dirty looks Hunter got from three specific cadets during mealtimes, and the way Hunter carefully avoided eye contact with any of them. Crosshair had nearly exploded when one of the cadets had made a point to “accidentally” bump into Hunter while they were lined up. His brother had flinched, an indiscernible jerk of movement to the average eye, but Crosshair had seen it plainly. It took every ounce of his resolve not to drive his fist into that karking cadet’s teeth. 

Crosshair wasn’t afraid to take the first swing, but he knew that the temporary gratification could cause bigger problems for Hunter. So Crosshair would bide his time and wait for just the right moment, when retaliation could come naturally. That was one of Crosshair’s most important, and difficult lessons: patience. 

A sniper had to be patient, wait for the perfect shots to line up in their scopes. Squeezing the trigger too soon or too late could mean life or death for the soldiers that were depending on them. And that is why Crosshair looked forward to his sniper training. The sessions were designed to challenge him, to make him better, to make him the best.

With his enhancement, being placed with elite trainers had been easy. However, with natural talent came elevated expectations and standards. His trainers were tough and demanded the best from the best. And in that environment, Crosshair thrived. 

**

“Hunter is late,” Tech declares to the room. 

“We know,” Crosshair bites out, not moving from where he is sprawled across his bunk, sharp eyes staring dully at the ceiling tiles. 

Wrecker is sitting at the table, half of his body slouched over the surface, toying with one of Tech’s pilfered tools. “I don’t like it when he’s late,” he says. “What if something happened to him?” 

“He could have been slotted for extra training,” Tech says, but it's a weak explanation. Extended training is always scheduled beforehand, and the boys would have known about it before they went their separate ways that day. 

Wrecker sits upright. “We should go look for him.” 

“I agree,” Tech says, already pulling on his boots. 

Crosshair rolls out of his bunk and snatches up his own boots. “We’ll start at his training room, then fan out from there.” 

“That is unwise,” Tech says. “We should stay together.” 

“We’d cover more ground if we split up.” 

“We may not need to cover any ground at all,” Tech argues, “Hunter could still be at training. We don’t know.” 

Crosshair hums doubtfully. “Do you really believe that, Tech?” 

Tech’s silence is answer enough. 

“We’ll just check his training room first,” Wrecker says. “We don’t gotta figure on anything else until we’ve done that, right?” 

“Right,” Crosshair and Tech mutter reluctantly. 

They set out after checking the halls for any sign of Kaminoan or droid. Technically, they are not supposed to be out of their barracks unless they are headed to or from training or the mess hall. However, the boys found the rule to be arbitrary, and it was only enforced if they were caught, which has never happened…yet. 

“Think of it as extracurricular training,” Tech had told them the first time they’d plotted to leave their barracks unauthorized. “Stealth is a necessary skill for any soldier.” 

It had almost become a game, blending into crowds they didn’t belong in, going places outside of their permissions. They found almost any excuse to play it, whether it be to raid the mess hall for extra rations or to pick through repurposing bins for Tech’s obsessive need for spare parts. 

This is the first time that the game has been played to find a missing brother, and with it comes a sense of gravity that makes Crosshair’s insides feel like knots. They should have pressed Hunter about the three cadets in his training, about the injuries that seemed to get worse as the days wore into weeks. Crosshair had wanted to believe that Hunter could handle himself, and judging by the scabbed over cuts on Hunter’s knuckles, he always managed to get a few licks in. But three verses one…Crosshair didn’t think anyone – not even the nearly graduated cadets – could win with those odds. 

He should have stepped in. 

They should have stepped in. 

Even if Crosshair doesn’t know how that would have worked. 

They reach Hunter’s training room, but it is occupied by cadets twice the boys’ age. Nonetheless, they press their faces against the window and peer inside. 

“I don’t see him,” Wrecker says, pushing away from the glass. “What should we do now?” 

“Split up,” Crosshair says at the same time that Tech says, “Stay together.” 

The two of them glare at each other while Wrecker glances nervously between them. Wrecker hates being the tie breaking vote. Hunter excels at it. That’s why he’s the one taking leadership training modules. 

“How about this,” Crosshair says in his best imitation of Hunter’s mediation skills. “You and Wrecker stay together, and I’ll go on my own.” 

Tech’s frown deepens. “I don’t think Hunter would like it if we separated.” 

“Too late for that, isn’t it?” Crosshair growls. “You’re the one that said it was good for us, didn’t you?” 

“Being separated for training is entirely different, and you know it,” Tech snaps back, temper flaring. 

Crosshair did know it, but he tended to push sensitive buttons when he was anxious. “Whatever. We shouldn’t be wasting time. You and Wrecker go left and I’ll go right.” 

Before Tech can say anything else, Crosshair turns and heads down the right hall leading away from the training room. He is halfway down the hall before he glances back to make sure Tech and Wrecker aren’t trailing after him. They aren’t, and Crosshair grins wryly at his small victory. 

Now to find Hunter. 

Crosshair moves quickly, but not quickly enough to draw attention from anyone that matters enough to stop him. He tries to think like Hunter would, but Hunter has always navigated with a precision lost on any of his brothers…or anyone for that matter. His enhancement always leads him in surprising, unexpected directions. Likely the reason they’ve never been caught during their games. 

The realization makes Crosshair pause, looking back the way he came warily. He’s going to get himself lost, if he hasn’t already. Tech is smart enough to keep him and Wrecker on track…Crosshair…not so much. 

Maybe Tech was right. They should’ve stayed together. 

Pride rears its stubborn head and Crosshair continues his course, supposing that if worse comes to worse, he can let himself be caught and delivered back to his barracks. He practices excuses in his mind that might be believable to a disappointed, disapproving Kaminoan. 

The farther Crosshair goes, the thinner the population of the city becomes, and he soon finds himself in long, echoing halls alone. Fear coils in his chest, around his lungs, making his breathing stutter. However, he won’t acknowledge the traitorous emotion that tries to cloud his mind. 

Focus on finding Hunter, he reminds himself sternly. 

“Hey!” a sharp voice calls behind him. 

Crosshair turns around. At the end of the hall behind him, three older cadets loom. 

“You’re one of those defective clones,” one of them says. “You’re the brother of that magnetic freak.” 

It doesn’t take Tech’s genius to realize they mean electromagnetic. Leave it to the idiot, bully regs not to know the difference. 

“Where is he?” Crosshair demands, planting his feet and drawing himself to his full height. 

The three boys approach, their identical faces twisted by sneering, hateful smiles. 

“We could ask you the same thing, little defect. What’s your power, huh? Is it in your head like the freak’s?” The cadet that had spoken stabs a finger against Crosshair’s forehead.

Scalding anger boils under Crosshair’s skin. “You better not have touched him!” 

“Or what? What’s a little, ugly thing like you gonna do about it?” 

Crosshair smiles, a snarling grin that bares his teeth. He thinks he’s been patient long enough. 

And he thinks he can give one versus three a try. 

**

Someone is holding his hand. 

It isn’t Tech, because Tech doesn’t do that sort of mushy stuff. And it can’t be Wrecker, his hands are much bigger. So it must be Hunter. 

He’d been looking for Hunter. 

“Hunter?” Crosshair asks. 

“Shh, it’s okay. You’re going to be okay.” It isn’t exactly Hunter’s voice, but it is Hunter’s gentleness.

“I want to go back to our barracks,” Crosshair tells him. 

“I know. You will,” Not-quite-Hunter’s voice soothes. “You got hurt. You have a concussion.” 

“How?” Crosshair asks. His eyes are open, but the world swimming in his vision is warped and blurry. 

“You got into a fight with some cadets. You hit your head really hard…”

Crosshair barely comprehends the words, hardly remembers that the syllables have meaning. He is distracted by the way the focus of his eyes won’t regulate. His breathing quickens as panic settles in. His vision is everything. Without it, he won’t be the best sniper, he won’t be able to protect his brothers…he might not be able to survive. 

“Nala Se! Something’s wrong!” Not-quite-Hunter’s voice calls out. 

Scared. Hunter sounds scared. 

If Hunter’s scared…

…and Nala Se…nothing good ever happened when Nala Se was involved. 

Crosshair tries to sit up, tries to pull away from Hunter’s hold on his hand. He wants to go back to the barracks. Please…just let me go back!

“He is experiencing a panic attack.” Nala Se’s voice is crisp and clear. 

And awful. 

“Crosshair, you’re going to be alright,” Hunter whispers, desperately. Crosshair can feel the warmth of Hunter’s breath against his ear as his brother leans in close. “Please, you have to trust me. Nala Se is going to help you.” 

Crosshair trusts Hunter. Crosshair doesn’t trust Nala Se. 

“Why can’t I see?” Crosshair pleads, voice thick in his throat.  

“You must calm yourself, CT-9904, or you will be sedated,” Nala Se says. “Omega, get the hypo.” 

Crosshair doesn’t know who Omega is, but Hunter lets go of his hand. “Hunter? Where are you going?” 

“The unit is experiencing impaired vision, confusion, and disorientation. Prepare the necessary scans, AZI,” Nala Se says. 

“Here, Nala Se,” Hunter says, and Crosshair tries turning his head toward his brother’s voice. There is only a blur of movement where he thinks Hunter might be.

“Please, Hunter,” Crosshair entreats, although he doesn’t even know what he is begging for. He wants this all to be a terrible nightmare he wakes up from. The kind where he climbs into one of his brother’s bunks for comfort, falling back asleep to their rhythmic breathing. 

Hands cup his face. Soft, gentle hands. They are small, but they don’t feel like Hunter’s at all. They are missing the callouses that Hunter has been cultivating during training. “I’m here, Crosshair,” Hunter says softly. “You’ll be back with your brothers soon.” 

The sting of a hypo-needle pricks his neck, and the tug of sedation pulls at the edges of his consciousness. “Our brothers,” Crosshair corrects him, voice flagging.

He hears a sharp intake of breath. “That’s right,” Hunter whispers, but Crosshair has to strain to hear the words. “Our brothers.” 

And then, unconsciousness claims him. 

Up Next...

Prompt: Forced to Stay Awake

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[jedi-lothwolf]

Febuwhump Day 5: Not Trusting Reality

Fandom: The Bad Batch

Summary: Crosshair and Omega have landed on Pabu after being trapped on Tantiss. Crosshair struggles to realize that the island is real after so long of fighting.

It had been a few weeks since Crosshair and Omega had returned to Pabu or for Crosshair, been taken to the island. There was eerie calm over the place that made things feel unreal. After so long of fighting and fighting just to stay alive the kindness the people of Pabu felt fake.

Sometimes a dream feels more real than reality. Crosshair was back with the empire on some snowy planet. There were civilians who had been playing outside before the imperial soldiers showed up to overtake the land. The clone didn't know why it was important to arrest or, if necessary, kill the seemingly innocent people but he was a good soldier and didn't ask questions.

There was a little girl, maybe seven, that walked up to him. Her bright green eyes sparkled at him as she asked him what his name was and for just a moment he forgot. "Move." Is all he told her.

"Are you okay?" She wandered, following him back into her village.

Crosshair didn't answer. One of the soldiers he had come with started to torch the wooden building that had been brought up with care. There was screaming and crying and the little girl just stood there next to him, confused. "What's happening?" She asked him with tears in her eyes. He never answered her.

Turning to the village, he shoved the girl away from him and took his place with the soldiers to make sure the people of the land understood it was time for them to leave. It wasn't their land anymore, instead it belonged to the empire as most everything would.

It wasn't until a few hours later that Crosshair learned what had happened to the bright eyed little girl he had met. Her body lay in the snow as she remained still.

When Crosshair woke up on the Maurader, he felt as if he was in a dream. Waking away from the ship, the warm sun hit his skin and he sighed. Maybe it was because he didn't think he deserved nice things that convinced him that Pabu wasn't real or maybe it was that his body wasn't used to safety.

The waves crashed onto the sand and the breeze blew softly carrying a warm scent of salt across the island. Pabu was full of thoughtful and kind people. They asked him how his day was and never seemed to hold it against him when he didn't answer.

It didn't rain too much for his comfort. The water didn't remind him of Kamino the way most oceans did and the smell was too fresh to be reminiscent of the place that raised him.

As time passed, Hunter and Wrecker started to find ways to be kinder to him. That was what really made it hard to believe Crosshair was away from his past. His brother had started to forgive him and none of them had been overly forgiving of people.

Hunter had always held grudges. He never truly forgave people without proof. The man couldn't help it with the way they were raised; none of them could.

Wrecker held on to things for so long and didn't know how to put it down. Anyone who betrayed him stayed an enemy and Crosshair had decently gotten on his bad side.

Then there was Echo who Crosshair had seen since Kamino and Tech; it didn't matter how Tech would feel. It wasn't like he could know what his response would have been.

Settling into a false reality slowly began to become reality. It took a while for Crosshair to understand his violent dreams were the nightmares and not the warm island he could call home

Maybe random gifts of fruit and strangers smiling that him weren't the worst things in the galaxy. There might be a place he could call home and not just a place that he returns too when the mission was over and maybe it was real. Something good was real and trusting that feeling of safety felt nearly impossible.

The sun was rising one day and suddenly it didn't feel like a dream was beginning but that one had ended that night. Morning became morning and not the beginning of a hallucination he used to cope with Hemlock sticking him with needles or watching small, innocent villages burn to the ground. Waves crashed to the beach. Lights started to turn on. Doors opened and people greeted their neighbors.

"Hello Crosshair." Some told him as he walked down the street to go back to the Maurader.

"Hello."

[autobot2001]

The Edge of Sleep

Author: Autobot2001 Genre: Fanfiction Fandom: NBC's Hannibal Rating: T Warning: Brief mention of torture Pairing: None Description: Jamie has a nightmare and doesn't realize when she's awake. Hannibal helps her.

Day 5; @feveruary: "Could you just hold me?" @febuwhump: not trusting reality @fluffyfebruary: starry night @fluffbruary: anticipation

A03 or under the cut

Jamie finds herself chained to a stone wall. The room has little light. The door swung open, revealing two tall individuals. Once they reach the dim light, Jamie realizes it's Hannibal and Will. "You are so easy to fool," Hannibal smiles. Jamie looks at them, horrified. She sees Will has a whip and tries to break the restraints. "You won't be able to get away," Will smiles.

Jamie wakes up, terrified. She doesn't remember how she got into the bed she lies on. She sits up and looks around the unfamiliar room. I was captured again. Jamie thinks. She hurries off the bed and out of the bedroom.

Jamie doesn't know that she ran by Hannibal's bedroom as she runs down the hall. He left the door open, concerned that Jamie would wake up crying from a nightmare about her abusers. Hannibal hurries out of bed and sees Jamie running down the hall towards the balcony. He worries she will jump off the balcony, but he doesn't want to scare her, so he doesn't run after her.

Jamie stands on the balcony. Hannibal stands behind her, waiting for the right moment to approach her. Jamie looks at the starry night sky, trying to calm down. "Are you ok?" Hannibal asks. Jamie panics. "You're safe," Hannibal assures her, putting his hands on Jamie's shoulders. Jamie tries to get away from Hannibal. Hannibal expected this response. He is careful as he works to calm Jamie down. He knows she's not trusting reality. She doesn't realize she's not dreaming. "You're safe," Hannibal assures her. He hugs her, but not too restricted, and rubs her back.

Soon, Jamie calms down. Hannibal tightens his hug. "You're safe," Hannibal repeats. "Will and I won't hurt you," he says, believing Will was also in Jamie's nightmare. "You don't have to tonight, but you have to give us more information so we can bring the kidnappers to justice." "Ok." Jamie stays quiet in Hannibal's embrace. "Are you ready to go back inside?" Hannibal asks. "Could you just hold me?" Hannibal wasn't expecting this answer. He smiles as he picks up the smaller woman and carries her to the cushioned outdoor couch. He sits on the couch with her on his lap. Jamie leans on him as Hannibal continues to hug her. He looks up at the starry night sky, smiling.

[tired-of-being-nice]

not trusting reality

YIPPEE!!!!! we are sticking with tadikm but jumping way ahead in canon: this is following the last story from whumptober! coren time :)

cws: uhhh well. what the title says. unreality, believing that what's happening is a dream/hallucination, unreliable narrator

Is it awake? It can't tell. Maybe. There are voices, but they seem to come from a long way away. Everything is fuzzy— in, out, in. It's so cold. It wants to tell whoever it is talking that it's cold, too cold, and this scares it for reasons it doesn't know, but it's out again before it has the chance. 

It's moving—well, being moved, more accurately—for a while, and then, abruptly, it's warm. When did that happen? How? Something soft but heavy is on top of it. Is it a trap? Why can't it open its eyes long enough to work out what's going on?

They wake up.

At least, they think they wake up. Actually, they're probably still asleep, based on how fuzzy everything still feels, and also the fact that they seem to be covered in a very warm blanket(?), which is not something that ever happens.

"Hey," says a voice, still from a long distance off. "I think it's awake?"

"Is it?" says a different voice, and oh, this is a dream. It has to be a dream. They never hear that voice except in things that are painful and hard to remember later. Coren rolls over and closes its eyes and hopes that they'll wake up soon.

———

They do— at least, they seem to. Maybe. Everything's still fuzzy. Someone is trying to get them to drink something. They obey, automatically, without even thinking to wonder what it could be, and then when they realize its water and, simultaneously, how thirsty they are, they try immediately to reach for the water and get more. They can't make their hands obey, though, and whoever it was moves away, and consciousness slips away from them again.

———

Someone is talking. Two someones? Coren can only half-process it. They're saying something like don't want to leave and can't do anything and that's just the problem.

No, don't leave, don't leave me, Coren wants to say, but they can't even get themself to make a sound.

———

Ah. Okay. Now they're awake. They must be awake, because everything before this was nonsense and this makes sense. Coren is cognizant enough to make sense of everything; the blank white wall they're staring at, the hollow silence of the space, the aching feeling of loneliness, even the weird dream-visions from earlier. They must have done something wrong, and they're being punished for it by being made to be alone. That's alright. They've done this before. The blanket is new— and, frankly, welcome, as even with it they can't seem to stop shivering. They huddle into it and try to reassure themself that eventually they'll be let out.

———

"Coren?"

"No," Coren mutters. "No, go away." They know what's going on now. They won't be tricked.

"Oh, you're awake. Okay. Uh, I just wanted to let you know that we're back, and—"

"Go away," Coren says, keeping their eyes squeezed shut and blanket pulled over their head. "You're not real. Leave me alone."

"What?" Milo sounds so hurt. Coren covers their ears. Not real, not real, not real. 

It can still hear them, though. "...Okay," they say. "I'll just, uh...okay." 

And then they don't say anything. That's rare. Usually they don't actually leave, no matter how much Coren begs them to.

Coren decides not to look further into this. They close their eyes and huddle into a little ball, and hope that the next time they wake up, things will make more sense.

taglist: @cepheusgalaxy @whumpsoda @snakebites-and-ink

[coffeeangelinabox]

Febuwhump Day #5: Not Trusting Reality

tw/cw non con nudity, mind fuckery

None of them go back to sleep. None of them try. 

Team Leader crosses the room to sit with Medic and in tense, hushed voices they go over what she has available for wound treatment, laying it all out in neat rows. Teammate One paces furiously, face getting grimmer, jaw tightening until even Smallest winces just to look at him. Teammate Two gathers Second’s discarded clothes. The bottom half is fine, though he’ll have to go commando. The shirt is unsalvageable. She brings the fabric over to Medic, holding it out wordlessly. 

Smallest sits and feels useless. 

She had wanted this so much when she convinced the Team to take her. 

She had been filled with the righteous fury and indignation of all fifteen of her years. When it had finally happened, the political wave which had promised equality for all turning and engulfing the nation, her small South-East suburb had remained untouched. Most of the people there had been professional middle class workers, their jobs not easily filled by sprites and golems. They had been kept in their homes and workplaces, expected to laud the new regime. And to report those that didn’t. 

Smallest had seen them, neighbours who used to wave now turning their faces in fear from one another. 

Once, when she had been small, her mother had promised to fill a quiet afternoon with her and her sisters baking. They had been planning on a surprise birthday cake for her father when he came home, but, trusted as the oldest to fetch the ingredients, Smallest, little more than five or six if she remembered correctly, had dropped the flour in her excitement, powder spilling over the floor. 

“Never mind, dearest,” her mother had said. “Go next door and see if Mrs Turtle can give us some.”

Mrs Turtle had, old lined face creased with grandmotherly understanding as Smallest had blurted out the whole sad story on her doorstep. Smallest had brought her a slice of cake, and mother had replaced the flour next time she went to the market. 

After Supervillain took over, a similar thing had happened. Smallest had gone into the pantry one day to discover the milk splattered on the floor, probably someone hadn’t shut the door (Youngest Sister, she was always doing that!) and the cat had gotten in again. 

“Never mind, mum,” she had said after clearing up the souring mess. “I’ll see if Mrs Turtle can give us some.”

Her mother had put a hand on her shoulder. “No,” she had said sharply, then more gently, “No. I don’t want to imply…if they think we’re saying we don’t have enough, it might be seen as a criticism.”

A cold heavy rock had settled hard in Smallest’s stomach at that. That such an ordinary act as helping someone could be viewed with suspicion. Then one of the girls at school had simply not come back after sharing a silly cartoon she’d scrawled about the lack of an election. Smallest had decided she wanted no part of it.

There were reports of terrorist actions, carried out by once-regular army only a few towns over. Watching the reports on the scry-projectors, Smallest had found herself thinking more and more that far from being immoral, unpatriotic monsters, these people, whoever they were, were carrying out the only actions that were conscionable.

She didn’t want to put her family in danger, so she had left her home, leaving only a letter of explanation for her mother and walked. It had been a cold, uncomfortable, homeless month before she had found the Team, and longer before she had made them see her as anything but a refugee to be saved.

"They weren’t looking to recruit children," Second had said, outraged at the suggestion.

She’d pulled herself up to her full height. She’s young and looks it, she knows, but she’s tall and her time on the streets had given a hardness to her face. 

“I’m nineteen,” she’d snapped. “Supervillain had my family killed for disagreeing with him. I’m not going to suck up to his government, and I haven’t got anywhere else to go.”

“Take her,” Leader had said.

“But-” That had been Three, London accent strong even in one appalled word.

“I don’t want to debate it.” Leader had been implacable, and Smallest had felt an almost embarrassingly overwhelming surge of hero worship. “She knows our faces, we can’t leave her here, and we’re not recruiting.” She had looked narrow eyed at Smallest, who had nodded hastily, “But…there’s also only six of us. We can’t topple a government without-”

“At least seven?” One had finished sarcastically.

Second had lifted what was left of Smallest’s possessions and walked her to the ramshackle contraption that claimed to be a crystalkart and which probably wouldn't run out of arcanium mid hop. 

She had followed him like a puppy after that. Leader she worshipped, as a small child to the idol she one day hoped to be. ("My daddy can do anything," she’d once bragged to a teacher, the same stars shining in her eyes, though she doesn’t remember). But it was Second who made sure she had everything she needed, made sure the others - all old soldiers - didn’t tease her too much. He hadn’t wanted her there, but it had obviously been out of concern for her, not rejection, and having taken her, he taught her to use a Blastwand, how to fall and fight and read a map and use a crystalwhisper. Leader she idolised, but Second she adored as an admired older brother and loved with everything hot and fierce inside of her. 

And now he’d been taken.

She’d watched, pointlessly, uselessly as Whumper had hurt him, humiliated him and she hadn’t even had the courage to tell him to stop.

Even now, as the others prepare and make plans, she has no role. She’s nothing but a waste of space child and Leader should have chosen her to die and spared Three. At least Three would have brought some skills to the room, other than just sitting.

Then there’s a footstep, a low grunt of pain, the now familiar sound of the door hinges, and Second is shoved roughly in. 

He’s conscious, Smallest has time to see that much in the rounded whites of his eyes before he topples forward like a cut oak and falls to the floor. He’s still naked, and there are bruises in darkening hues blooming over his body. There are cuts too, though most of those appear shallow and, Smallest notices, looking at the way the skin has been shredded in parallel lines up his forearms, above painful abraded bands on his wrists which speak of restraints, look like he did them to himself. She moves forward.

Leader pushes her back and Teammate Two catches her, holding her close in a sideways hug that Smallest can’t help but lean into. 

“What did you do to him?” she demands furiously of the silent, helmeted guards in the doorway. 

Smallest watches as Medic approaches Second. “Hey, Second, I’m gonna-”

He comes up swinging with a roar. His wild punch clumsy and uncoordinated, but still powerful and Medic flinches back. 

“Hey, hey, it’s just me. I’m-”

Second lunges at her again, gets fingers around her throat. “Stop!” he growls, accent pronounced. “I know-”

Teammate One grabs him, forcibly dragging him off Medic who stumbles back, coughing and holds him still. 

Team Leader gives up on the motionless soldiers and turns back to them as Second in Command struggles like a thing possessed, howling and screaming a mixture of obscenities and French and curses that could do real damage if he had enough power to rate even a one on the European index. She steps up to where he is restrained by One and slaps him, full across the face. 

He spits at her, snarls a few more insults, drags in a breath that sounds like it hurts and then says in carefully enunciated English, “I know you’re not real. I’ll tell you nothing, you hear!”

It is Medic that rounds on the soldiers this time, “What did you give him?” she sounds furious. “What potion is this?”

They don’t acknowledge her any more than they did Leader. 

Second is still throwing himself from side to side. It’s becoming harder and harder for One to hold him still unless he is willing to do some actual damage. Instead, he pinions the other man’s arms in a full bear hug from behind. 

“Get it together, Second,” he grunts. “You’ve got your crack rubbing on my junk. It’s awkward, man.”

Second pushes backwards, taking them both to the floor in a pile of limbs and thudding of flesh. One inhales sharply as his skull clonks on the floor but doesn’t let go. Second whines, high pitched like a wounded animal and Smallest sees blood, bright red and frothing on his lips. 

“Hold him still!” barks Medic. “He’s got a broken rib. It’s in his lung.”

“What do you think I’m trying to do?” grunts One.

Team Leader moves over trying to help immobilise an increasingly incoherent Second in Command who continues to shriek that they’re not real, that he won’t help them, that he knows what they are and who made them, that he won’t, won’t, won’t. “Can you put him out?” she asks Medic over her shoulder.

Medic rolls a ball of power between her fingers consideringly. “Not when he’s like this. If he’s not calm, if he’s resisting…and I still don’t know what they did. It could have adverse effects.”

Smallest ducks from under Two’s arm and crosses to the group on the floor. 

“Smallest-!” Two says, grabbing for her, but she shrugs the woman off and kneels down.

Leader puts an arm across her, barring her way. “I don’t think you should-”

Smallest laces her fingers through Second’s and feels the muscles straining in an arm that Leader is barely holding down. “Hi, Second,” she says quietly.

He blinks at her and the terrified, hate filled look turns to confusion. “Smallest,” he gasps. “How- You aren’t-?”

“I am real,” she says, leaning into him a little, keeping her eyes on his face. “But…even if I weren’t, you know I wouldn’t hurt you. You wouldn’t imagine a me that would hurt you.”

He chuckles a little and it turns into pained gasps, more of that red bubbly blood running down his chin. “I-”

“And even if you would, you know I couldn’t hurt you.” Though, with him in this state, she probably could.

He closes his eyes for so long that she thinks that he’s fallen unconscious, then his fingers grip hers, so tight that it makes her repress a gasp. “You’re real?” and his voice is so quiet, so tentative, her heart hurts.

“Yeah. We all are. We just want to help. You’re hurt.”

Another long pause, then he nods once, sharp and jerky like surrender and the tension runs out of him.

Leader and One look at each other and One, clearly poised to react should this turn out to be a trick, carefully lets go and shimmies out from under Second’s bulk.

There’s a noise from the door and another as Medic edges close once more. All their heads snap up to see the soldiers leaving, key clanking in the lock, clearly whatever they were waiting for has happened. Second on the other hand, cringes away from Medic’s footstep.

“Don’t touch me.”

“It’s just Medic,” Leader says and that doesn’t help with his flinching and cowering at all.

“It’s just Medic,” Smallest repeats and his eyes open, locking onto her face. 

“Medic?”

“Yeah,” she moves close to him once more. “She just wants to help.”

His eyes are still locked onto her, blurry with pain. “You promise? Promise me, ma chérie.”

“I promise, Second. No one here wants to hurt you.” She can hear her voice getting high pitched and squeaky, making her sound like a distressed nine year old. 

“I don’t like this,” says Two.

Everyone turns to look at her in astonishment. 

“Really?” says One laconically. “I thought this was quite a good teambuilding exercise. Better than building a tower out of loo roll tubes.”

She gives him a disgusted look. “I mean- I’ve read about this.”

Medic looks up. “What is it?  A potion or a spell or-”

“It’s a psyworm,” Two says. “It’s in his brain, eating into his memories, showing him whatever it thinks will get him to give it whatever it's been trained to look for.”

Second makes another broken sound and his hand tightens convulsively on Smallest’s once more, then terribly, dreadfully, he begins to cry.

[thieves-never-say-die]

I want to feel it, I want to feel the fire

Day 5: not trusting reality

Fandom: Leverage

Rating/Warnings: Gen, No Warnings

Summary: “Here.” Parker dug a warm winter coat out of the bag slung over her shoulder and held it out to him. Eliot waited for a second before he reached out to take it. During The Experimental Job, Parker sneaks in to give all the prisoners - including Eliot - jackets.

Word Count: 480

ao3 link

[side-shuffling-hyperfixations]

Febuwhump Day 5: Not Trusting Reality

“Leo!”

“…Raph?” No. No, he dare not hope again. With a sharp, skeptical hiss Leo swung hastily against his suspension cuffs to recoil.

“Wait, stay still! Let me get ya outta these things!”

They only ever released him for transfer to the exam table. But the accent, the inflections were so perfect…

“This is another test,” he croaked. “Some hallucinogen or a-a dream…”

“Leo, it’s me. C’mere—” One of his hands was freed from the cuff to be caught in a calloused grip, pulled down and pressed to rough ridges, marginal scutes. “Ya feel me? I’m here, I’m real. Promise.”

[robin-writing-with-a-bad-hand]

Febuwhump: day 5

(Prompts by @febuwhump)

Not trusting reality

“Seymour! Seymour!”

It was him… he’d come back disguised as his saviour to take him again. Well he wouldn’t let him.

[cynicalone94]

Not Trusting Reality

Follow up to Housewives' Occult Association. Jay's nightmare may be over but the emotional scars remain. When a simple cold stirs up the past, can Hailey and Emmy help Jay find his way home?

Read on AO3 here.

@febuwhump

[ioannemos]

Febuwhump day five: not trusting reality

Fandom: Prodigal Son

Words: 500

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The shed door slams shut behind her, lock clicking, and Dani forces herself to breathe deeply, closing her eyes so her vision adjusts quicker. “Bright?” she says, not hoping for much, and startles when there’s an immediate clatter further back in the room. “Bright? Is that you?”

No response for several very long seconds. Then, “Dani?”

Her whole body shudders involuntarily: it’s Bright’s voice, yeah, but thin and uncertain, wavering even on two syllables. She has to swallow past a sudden lump in her throat. “Yeah, it’s me. Where are you?”

A shadow moves in the dim room, slight and human-shaped. “Dani?” He takes a step forward and overbalances, grabbing onto another shadow that creaks in protest. “Don’t… I… I can’t… Are you real?”

“Yeah,” she replies, not sure what else to say. “Came looking for you, actually. But don’t worry, Gil knows where I went.” She emphasizes lightly that nobody knew where he went. “When I don’t check in in about half an hour, he’ll come find us.”

There’s no response. As she makes her way slowly through the junk, the shadow resolves into Bright. His jacket and tie are missing, and he’s undone his cuffs and the top button of his shirt. As she gets closer she notes other signs of trouble: rapid breathing, an all-over trembling that rivals his usual hand tremor. He hasn’t been missing that long, she thinks uneasily. What happened?

Finally she’s within a few feet, close enough to touch, though without knowing his status she’s leery of doing so. “Are you okay?”

He hums uncertainly. His eyes are wide in the dim light, hands gripping and releasing the back of a three-legged dining chair. “Are you real?” he counters, voice shaky.

“Yeah,” she repeats, taking half a step forward to put the backs of her fingers against his cheek.

He gasps and jerks away. “Your hand is freezing!”

“Does that help?” She goes to put her hand in her pocket; he grabs it and leans forward to press her hand across the back of his neck. He gasps again and shudders, but doesn’t let go of her wrist. After a moment she takes another half step forward so he doesn’t have to lean. “Does that help?” she asks again, quieter.

“Yeah.” He sounds on the verge of tears.

Dani’s heart clenches. She reaches up to brush his disheveled hair off his forehead; he shivers at the touch. Then she realizes that some of it isn’t hair, some of it is dried blood, and she briefly runs out of air. “Bright.”

“It’s…” He trails off, maybe because a claim of ‘fine’ won’t fly. “Head wounds bleed,” he substitutes.

“I swear to God,” she growls, not so much at him as whoever inflicted it, but she can feel him flinch. “Another head trauma? How are you not in a coma by now?”

“Sorry to disappoint,” he says, voice soft and sibilant.

She makes herself take another deep breath. “Okay, well, we’ll talk about that later.”

[damejudyhench]

Sometimes when he was in the dungeon he would tell himself it was a bad dream, that he would wake up and go to the great hall and they would all be there. He would tell himself so hard that he could almost smell his father’s coffee, taste the butter and the malted bread.

Percy is hit by a strange spell and begins to relive the horrible experiences of his youth. Can the rest of the team convince him of what’s real, or will his mind be trapped forever in the laboratory beneath Whitestone Castle?

@febuwhump