#state sanctioned whump

[uriswhumpchamber]

A character has been accused and convicted of a crime. A particularly heinous one - potentially world-ending levels of evil, I mean. Even capital punishment wouldn't be enough.

Luckily, this character cannot stay dead.

Perhaps after the fifth death they can get a retrial - see if they should be forgiven already.

[watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees]

Adopt, don’t shop - These celebrity boys believe in second chances

DISCLAIMER: any and all resemblance to One Direction and fanfiction about being sold to them is absolutely intentional and I wear it as a badge of honour

special thanks to @ziptiesnfries who came up with it

CW: sold to OneDirection trope reformulated into pet whump, dehumanisation, rescue shelter, abuse mention

Her heels clicked along the pristine white tiles of the corridor, as she walked in a strict straight line right in the middle, barely noticing the startled employees, who scurried to avoid getting in her way. She didn’t even bother to look up from her phone, until she got to the glass door at the end of the hallway, and even then she just glanced to her front to find the doorknob and push the door in. 

A small bell rang just above her head, signalling her presence. Not like she needed it, Diana was surrounded by a powerful aura that was hard to ignore for even the most careless person. Her bright red hair, perfectly manicured long nails that matched in colour contrasted with her signature bright green jacket. She would’ve been hard on the eyes, hadn’t she carried herself with such poise and an outrageous amount of professionally applied makeup. 

“Good evening Miss” The employee greeted her, standing up behind the counter with a smile plastered on, in an attempt to conceal her unease at TV-personality’s sight “How can I assist you today? Our shelter is grateful to have you on the premises, if we could-”

“I don’t have time for this” she raised a hand, silencing the poor employee on an instant. She didn’t even look up, just continued typing with one hand “I need one of those pets, a pretty one, and quick”

“Of course, of course” she rambled “I would be happy to show you around and find one suitable for your needs. You need to know, this is a rescue shelter-” but she was cut off again.

“Yeah, yeah, rescue shelter, if I didn’t know I wouldn’t be here” she raised her voice a bit “It will raise our engagement to the skies, so just bring me a pretty one!” Diana huffed, exasperated by the incompetence of the employee. She thought the same way about a lot of people. 

The employee, stood for a moment, trying to evaluate whether it was the time to stand up for herself, but it wasn’t, so she hurried to the back. The pets were kept in state-sanctioned enclosures, cages really, with only a small cot and a bucket in most of them. She sometimes wondered if they truly are rescuing these people. Pets. She had to correct herself again. She looked around with a sigh, trying to figure out what a high-profile client than Diana Young look for in a pet. Bring a pretty one, it echoed in her ear. 

It was a rather quiet day in the back, a few pets sat on their beds, curled up by the wall and rested, they raised their heads as she walked by, they just acknowledged her presence not expecting her to actually come for them. 

She stopped turned around at the end of the row of cages and walked back, inspecting the people kept on the other side of the corridor. It was a hard decision. They had been there long enough for her to get a tad bit attached, she thought a lot about adopting one of them.

Her eyes settled on the scrawny boy in the second to last enclosure. 

His hair used to always be in his face, covering his eyes from the prying eyes of potential adopters. It’s been a process, but she got him to let her tie it up. 

“Oliver” she called to him softly, as she unlocked the cage. He looked up with an angry frown.

“What do you want?” he grumbled. 

“There’s a lady here, interested in you” she answered, as she unclipped a leash that she kept attached to her belt to have on hand, and just stood there waiting for him to walk up to her.

“Really?” Oliver brightened up at that. He had been there for way too long and the inability to do anything about his state was killing him. He had been removed from his previous home for alleged abuse, which he didn’t quite understand. Good pets learn from punishments don’t they? Besides his owners were a nice family with two kids, the occasional beating for messing up was didn’t make his list of priorities to worry about. The first few days he was at the shelter he spent crying.

He remembered Johannah tried really hard to sooth him and make him as hopeful and comfortable as she could. She was the most active volunteer at the shelter managing the front desk most days. He didn’t make her job easy.

And now she was standing in front of him with a leash that would lead him to freedom. He regretted his initial reaction. He didn’t want to part with the kind woman on bad terms.

“I’m sorry” he muttered to her as he walked up and lifted his chin for her to attach the leash to his collar. 

“No worries” she sighed, with a soft smile. He attempted to smile back and it earned him a pat on the shoulder “I have something for you” she blurted out, her mind just catching up with her. 

He looked at Johanna curiously, as she reached into one of the many pockets of her cargo trousers and pulled out a little black band. 

“Here, make yourself pretty” Oliver took the elastic and attempted to tie his hair up in a bun as she taught him. It turned out a lot messier than how she would’ve done it, but neither of them minded. 

“Let’s go” She smiled at him and fixed a few strands before heading back to the front desk area.

Diana was tapping her shoe impatiently, with her arms crossed in front of her chest. It was a rare sight to see her with her eyes actually looking away from her phone. Johannah swallowed thickly, as she entered the room with Oliver in tow, who looked perplexed at the sight of the woman.

“I don’t have all day” she exclaimed, stepping up to the desk and picking up the pen that had the shelter’s logo printed on it, clicking it once so she could sign any document that she needed to get this over with. She only spared a glance in Oliver’s way and nodded timidly “He will do”

“His name is Oliver, he is 23 years old, he comes from-”

“Whatever, where do I sign?” Johannah sighed, this time loud with annoyance. She could be sued for not providing all information of the rescue to the prospective owner, and Diana couldn’t care less.

She pushed a stack of papers in front of her, pointing at the line at the bottom.

“Do you acknowledge that-”

“Sure, sure” Diana flipped through the pages, leaving her signature on each one.

“Miss Young, would you be interested in donating to one of these charities supporting our shelter?” 

They were already out the door. She dragged Oliver behind her at a steady pace, exiting the building and right into the car that parked right by the entrance, which he was pretty sure happened to be illegal.

They sat on the two sides of the backseats, he wasn’t really sure what he was supposed to do. She signalled to the driver to go, then leaned back in her seat typing away on her phone.

Oliver decided to look around town while they sat in the car. Nothing seemed familiar around the streets they drove through, he wasn’t even sure if he was in the same city he used to call home. 

“What was your name again?” 

“Oliver, miss” he replied softly, worried that he’d anger his new owner.

“Oh, no sweetheart” she laughed, the tapping of her nails on the buttons of the phone never seemed to stop “I’m just Diana to you” He really did try to catch her attention even for a moment, looking extremely confused as he provided no other context to him, but she didn’t bother to look his way again until the end of the car ride.

“What are you waiting for?” Diana yelled, as she got out of the car slamming the door shut, not wasting time waiting for Oliver. He felt awkward as he got out, in the empty parking garage they stopped in, even though noone saw him. His leash dangled in front of him, as he rushed after the woman, who had already made her way to the elevator a few metres away from where the driver parked.

She glanced down and grabbed the collar with a sigh as they waited for the door to open.

“Okay, listen, I’ll only explain once” she started with a strict tone. Oliver’s eyes promised to drink every single word of hers up “I manage a band, I don’t expect you to know them,” she added condescendingly before she continued “Our engagement has fallen a great deal the past few months, even though they just went on tour and the new album dates ‘have been leaked,’ so we’re jumping on this movement with rescue pets and such” Oliver nodded, pretending to understand. They stepped in the elevator.

She spoke way too fast for him to keep up, explaining phenomena he felt like he had never even heard before. The kids at his old family were still way too young for boy bands and so he had never encountered such a thing before.

“You’ll be in front of camera’s a lot, we need the publicity, and when they don’t need you, you’ll be helping me out. Clear?” 

Oliver felt his stomach do a double backflip as he heard about being in front of the public eye. He never even liked leaving the house, he wasn’t suited for that sort of thing. What will he even do?

The doors opened after a loud beep letting them know the elevator reached the desired floor. They arrived on another floor of the parking garage, with only one vehicle taking place in the middle parked across three spaces. It was a bus, with it’s windows blocked out with the enormous painting that took up one whole side, that read 2WayStreet in blaring red letters. Diana stepped out, dragging him along, which he miserably noted will be a common occurrence from now on.

She knocked on the door twice, only warning the occupants about their arrival before entering.

“Adopt don’t shop - These celebrity boys believe in second chances” The following week the headlines were plastered all over their pages, the newspaper and they even got a mention on national television. The stunt was working as intended, engagement increased by 35%, Diana acknowledged it, which was her equivalent of a normal person feeling victorious over a groundbreaking achievement. They can do even better, buying Oliver was one of her best ideas so far.

next masterlist

[trifoliate-undergrowth]

Hey what are the top five westerns you would recommend to a person who doesn’t watch very many?

oh god I actually haven't seen that many different ones, I just get very fixated on the ones I have seen. I'll open this up to anyone else with recommendations but with that caveat also these are my top 5 (to be fair I haven't seen that many more than 5):

*I'll try to throw in specific trigger warnings beyond the basic Violence, which you should assume for any of these

-The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. A classic, you may have already seen it, but it's also a sort of a revisionist western (antihero protagonists, dark humor, deconstruction of some of the popular western tropes.) It's also just very good. And very homoerotic in an "insane frenemies with chemistry that cannot be easily defined" fun chaotic way. warnings for war imprisonment and torture.

-For a Few Dollars More. The "prequel" to the above, but not really (the dollars "trilogy" is grouped together and Clint plays similar character types in the reused famous Poncho Costume but none of the stories are connected and it doesn't make sense if the characters are literally the same). CLASSIC rivals-to-friends, delightful to see some emotionally constipated loner types accidentally becoming friends. Has a really fun epic showdown scene that I feel is less well known than the one in the end of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly but just as good. Has some uncomfortable extended flashbacks to a rape scene that shows up multiple times, and torture.

-Death Rides a Horse. Not as polished as some of the others, idk if I'd say it's "A Good Movie(TM)", but it's very very dear to my heart as you have probably noticed from my constantly posting about it. Features my favorite Lee Van Cleef character (I have become obsessed with Lee Van Cleef, Mortimer in For a Few Dollars More is my second favorite.) Bill's actor is a little bit bad but in a fun way I just headcanon he's a bit autistic. This one in addition to the usual violence features rape, rape of a minor, and torture/imprisonment (there's a lot of torture in these. good for whump.)

-The Quick and the Dead. The first one on here that's not a spaghetti western, and that has a female protagonist. From 1995, very much a revisionist western and a complete fever dream. I'm having a hard type describing it but it's very... visceral. Like the trauma feels very immediate and real in a way it doesn't in some older movies. I really like how characters are emotionally fleshed out here and how apparent the PTSD is. Yet again implied rape of a minor and I'm warning again for violence because this isn't like... the regular violence, it's focused on it in a way that really makes it hit home. Very good, very unsettling, completely insane movie. I feel like it fully realizes a lot of the implications of the violence in western movies in a way that I respect a lot and haven't seen in quite that way in other movies.

-The Great Silence. This was recently recommended by fullborn on dreamwidth for yuletide and so I'm passing it on! This one is a tragedy I'm just warning you going in. Very melancholic, set in a frozen, bitter wasteland. I love the characters and yet again the deconstruction of western tropes. Basically all of these are revisionist westerns in some way. Christ and almost all of them have some kind of rape going on. In this one it's only an attempted rape. There's also racism, torture and mutilation and just... a real downer ending, but it fits the overall vibe of the movie. It's generally about an institutional miscarriage of justice. The main character is a hired killer and has the strongest moral backbone of anyone, he's killing state-sanctioned killers (unscrupulous bounty hunters.) Fucking love a silent protagonist. His name is Silence.

[blood-of-ink]

All that Remains - 3

Warnings: Fever, graphic injury, broken whumpee, some very mild lady whump (Like, a few bruises and scrapes) panic attack, mentions of past child abuse, vomiting (Very non-graphic)

Taglist: @whumpwillow and @whumpilicious

________________________________________________________________

Supervillain drifted into consciousness slowly, lost in a haze of pain and exhaustion. He was afraid, but too weak to do anything to save himself.

As his eyes fluttered open, and he began to take in his surroundings, he realized that Vigilante was next to him, curled up on the edge of the bed, sleeping. Through the racerback of her shirt, he could see the scrapes and bruises that littered her body, as well as a few scars. None were serious, but it was a stark reminder of what she faced every day.

But she was still helping him, and that confused Supervillain. She had always hated him.

Perhaps she was just waiting until he had healed slightly so she could kill him herself.

Cold fear knotted in his stomach at the thought. His breathing increased, and tears pricked at his eyes. Vigilante stirred, and Supervillain whimpered, gasping for breath as panic constricted his chest.

“Supervillain?” Vigilante sounded concerned. “Hey.” She gently put her hand on his bicep, and he flinched away with a sob.

“Easy, easy, it’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Supervillain shook his head, breathing heavily as tears spilled down his face. 

Vigilante shifted closer to him, and he cried out.

“Don’t- no more! Please!” He wailed, shuddering violently. “I can’t- I can’t do this!”

“Supervillain, calm down.” Vigilante said, her voice both gentle and firm. Supervillain whimpered, doing his best to obey. He couldn’t risk angering her, making her want to hurt him.

When his efforts proved fruitless, Vigilante reached out, wrapping her arms around him, and pulling him in close to her. Supervillain tensed briefly, before slumping against her with a sniffle.

“It’s alright.” Vigilante said gently.

Supervillain said nothing, just nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, trembling all over.

__________

Vigilante sighed, gently stroking the supervillain’s sweat-damp hair. He was shivering uncontrollably, and still crying.

She could never have imagined Supervillain in such a wretched state.

“Ssssssshhhhh, ssssssshhhh, it’s alright now, Supervillain.” She murmured, as a sob hitched in his throat.

“D-don’t hurt me.” He stammered. “Please. I’m sorry.”

“Hush, it’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Supervillain hiccuped, but his trembling was beginning to subside.

“Sssshhhhh, ssssshhhh. There, it’s okay.”

“Why are you helping me?” Supervillain moaned. “You hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.” Vigilante said softly. “And being a vigilante... All I want is justice. What Villain did to you isn’t justice. It’s monstrous.” Though she knew it to be true, the words still felt like a knife in heart.

Because Villain had once been her dearest friend. Back when they were just children. Before he’d broken every promise he’d ever made Vigilante.

The way he’d cut Supervillain open was monstrous enough, but to have reopened the wound, time and time again, to have kept him alive for days just to prolong his suffering, and then abandon him to die of his infection... Vigilante had no words for such cruelty, nor for how much it pained her.

Because she now knew for a fact that none of that cocky boy remained. All that was left was a monster.

Vigilante felt tears prick at her eyes, and furiously blinked them away. She couldn’t cry now.

After a while, Supervillain had exhausted himself enough that he fell back asleep, curled up under the blankets, and finally calm. It was only then that Vigilante let the tears fall, thinking back to the day that she and Villain had promised to do better than their parents, had promised to escape that vicious cycle of abuse.

Vigilante had grown up to seek justice, to fight for those who couldn’t fight for themselves, even if it sometimes fell outside of the sanctioned laws. She had grown up to be strong, and brave, and kind.

And Villain had turned out just like his father.

Vigilante stood up, walking into the bathroom, and splashing her face with cold water, before wiping away her tears. For the past five years, Vigilante had told herself that she could help Villain, help him break the cycle he couldn’t break on his own. That she could save him.

But what he had done to Supervillain had shattered that hope that she had so desperately clung to. Forced her to accept that it was out of her control. She had made her choice, and Villain had made his. And he wasn’t going to change no matter how hard Vigilante tried to help him. Her stomach spasmed, and she threw up in the sink.

[peachy-panic]

The Rise & Fall of Jaime Quinn: Act 4

Do No Harm masterlist

HERE COMES THE WHUMP.  THE WHUMP HAS ARRIVED.

WARNINGS: sexual harassment/assault, general downward spiral (mentally, physically, financially), homelessness, thoughts about dubcon sexual experiences, alcohol use/abuse, implied drugging, kidnapping

ACT 1 | ACT 2 | ACT 3 | ACT 5 

CSU gave him until the start of the Spring semester to move out of his dorm, and that was only after he pleaded his case for an extension.

Jaime spent most of January hopping between cheap motels and whatever couches were available to him. His soccer coach offered him a few nights to get back on his feet but had to draw the line when his wife raised concerns. He managed to sneak two nights in Miss Sherry’s house, but he knew from the beginning it wasn’t a sustainable option. In a state-sanctioned group home, she can’t risk her license by letting a “stranger” camp out in the living room with minors in the house. He spent more nights than he would have preferred sleeping on public transportation or walking like a zombie around twenty-four hour stores through the night, sleepless but warm.

He has made every effort to avoid the shelter. After spending one night there at the end of January, dodging the lingering eyes of older men and having most of his personal belongings stolen, he almost feels safer staying on the streets. They warn them about safety and the inherit risk of theft when they sign in but offer no resources against it. It’s degrading, the way they are treated, the way they are spoken to inside those walls. Like prisoners. Like the Companions Jaime only ever hears about from a safe distance. 

He hates it. But when his bank account drains lower than the cost of the cheapest motel in the city and the temperatures drop below freezing for the third night in a row, Jaime is left with little other choice.  

It’s fine, he tells himself. It’s okay, because it’s not permanent. It’s a temporary solution for a problem he is working hard to solve. One he will solve.

He checks into St. Anne’s on Friday night with thirty minutes to spare. The eight o’clock curfew is strictly enforced: once you’re in for the night, you’re in, and there’s no coming back once you leave. Duffle thrown over his shoulder and keychain dangling between his fingers, Jaime follows the shelter coordinator down the hall to his room for the night. He tries not to let the dread show on his face when he walks in to find the familiar face of the man he had shared a room with on that awful first night. Neither of them say anything to each other as Jaime enters, dropping his bag on the free bed.

The room is set up similarly to the dorm style; an immediate sting when he walks into the room. There are two beds across from each other, which are not the worst in terms of comfort, but the linens have the kind of odor that lingers no matter how many wash cycles they go through. There are no closets, no desks. Just the twin beds and a plastic container that slides underneath each for storage. He decides to forgo the bin altogether this time, stuffing his coat and shoes into the duffle and pushing it up against the wall so that his body will serve as a physical barrier when he sleeps. It doesn’t leave him much surface area on the tiny bed, but it will be enough.

Before he lays down, he takes out the manilla envelope he got from the print shop and counts the sheets he has left.

It’s the good paper. Card stock. He remembers reading somewhere that employers are more likely to take a second look at your resume if you put in the effort to go the extra mile. It cost him a couple extra dollars total, but an afternoon without lunch will be worth it if this is what gets him an interview.  

That’s all he needs, just one person to let him in the door, to extend the smallest trust, and Jaime will run with it. He will make it work. He has to.

Then he can start saving money again. He will find a stable place to stay, even if it’s back at a motel for a little while, and he will build his life back up. Eventually, he will figure out a way to get back into school. It won’t be CSU, but that doesn’t matter. He has beaten the odds before. He can do it again.

“What’cha got in there?” The man on the opposite bed slurs from behind him. Jaime closes his eyes because he can already tell it’s going to be a bad night. He’s drunk, audibly, and Jaime is far too exhausted to put up with whatever low-level harassment he has planned for him tonight. “Pictures of your girlfriend?”

The high-pitched laugh that follows grates on his nerves, but Jaime doesn’t respond.

“Come on. You gonna share or what?”

“Fuck off,” he snaps over his shoulder. Jaime shoves the three remaining resumes back into the envelope, fastens the top, and slides the whole thing under his mattress. His roommate is grumbling something under his breath, but Jaime tries to ignore it as he climbs onto the bed and throws the scratchy blanket over his jeans.

“You’re not gonna cry all night again, are you? Some of us come here to get some fuckin’ sleep.”

He stills. The words sting. Jaime knows they shouldn’t and he hates himself a little for the fact that this lowlife can affect him at all, but the taunt takes him directly back, and suddenly he is eleven years old again, holding his hands over his ears as the older boys yell at him for keeping them up with his grieving sobs.

He presses his lips together, refusing to take the bait. Suddenly Jaime misses Derek’s presence across the room more than ever.

It takes a long time for anything close to sleep to find him despite the exhaustion. He doesn’t bother turning the light off in the room. The single, exposed bulb is dim enough that it hardly makes a difference anyway, so he just pulls the blanket higher over his face and closes his eyes.

He must have fallen unconscious at some point, because when he opens his eyes, the room is completely dark. He blinks heavily against the paper-thin pillow, rolling over to--

Jaime startles awake as his shoulder makes contact with the warm body leaning over his bed. There’s a hand pressed flat against his belly, under his shirt. He jerks away, slamming his elbow into the wall as he scrambles to slip out from under the shadowy figure of his bunkmate.

“What are you doing?” The edge of panic raises his pitch. Jaime shoves his touch away, realizing only then that the man’s free hand is tucked beneath the waistband of his ripped jeans, his arm moving in quick, jerking motions.

A flare of heat travels up his arms and into his face, heartbeat throbbing in his ears. He’s momentarily frozen in place as his brain scrambles to catch up with what he is seeing. It’s the grunting--the harsh, broken sounds coming from the man’s throat--that shakes him out of it.

“Get the fuck away from me!” Jaime lashes out, kicking a leg out from under his blanket and managing to make contact somewhere just below the ribs. He doesn’t wait to see if the blow is effective, he just clambers to his feet. They are toe-to-toe now, the reek of booze coming off the older man in waves. All the frustration and grief Jaime has pushed down and down and down over the last two months is rising to the surface, uncapped in a moment by this final blow.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He shouts loud enough to wake the entire hall. His fists are trembling at his sides, clenching and unclenching like he’s… like… oh, god, he needs to get out of here. He needs to walk away before he can do something he regrets. “I hope you like sleeping on the fucking street,” he spits before turning to the door.

A hand around his arm yanks him back, jerking him back toward his roommate. “Gonna go tell on me? Fucking spoiled brat,” the man spits, flecks of his saliva landing on Jaime’s cheek. Revulsion rolls through him.

“Get off me,” he whispers.

He’s not expecting the other arm that lunges out at him, and he isn’t sure what the intention behind the move is, and he doesn’t find out. Something in the contact shatters the razor-thin patience Jaime is clinging onto, and he doesn’t have time to think before he snaps

It’s just like Dylan all over again; the flat press of his palms against the man’s chest, shoving hard. This time, the man shoves back. There’s no stopping the ball once it’s rolled that far, and Jaime only just has enough mental clarity to wonder when he became this violent person before a fist slams into his eye socket.

Deep inside him, a voice that he can barely recognize as his own is screaming out, trying to claw its way to the surface. It’s a warning bell a little too late, a plea to stop, to breathe, to think before this downward spiral of his can spin any further out of control. The scream is so loud that he doesn’t hear the impact of his knuckles against this man’s skull, nor the shattering of the plastic container beneath the bed when his own back crashes through it. He doesn’t hear anything at all except that deafening, infinite echo until the door bursts open, spilling light from the hallway onto their crumpled forms.

Only when he looks up at the red-faced security officer does the screaming come to a stop.

And by then, the silence is enough to tell him it’s too late.

***

He walks without direction, fueled by the simmering rage beneath his skin and the bitter-cold air that stings the surface of it. He barely feels the throbbing ache in his knuckles and his lower lip. He barely feels the blood as it cools and dries or the weight of the duffle bag draped over his shoulder, though that’s probably because all that’s left in it is an extra pair of jeans and his envelope of resumes.

The thought is another cinder block on top of the growing mountain on his chest. It’s hard to get a full breath for reasons beyond the ache in his ribs. Unless he is able to find a place to shower and get some sleep, he is not going to be in any presentable shape to go handing out resumes tomorrow. It doesn’t take long for the concern to dissolve, numbing over like the rest. There is nothing he can do about it now, and he doesn’t have the energy to stress over what he cannot change.

He doesn’t even have the energy to stress over what he can change, which feels like increasingly little.

He’s just… so fucking tired.

The events of the last two months play out like a movie behind his eyes; the rise and fall of the life he thought he could make for himself. Over and over, he watches himself come so close to breaking free of the chains life had bound him in, so close he can feel the glow of freedom on his face, and then he watches it all be ripped away. He goes on like this for blocks until they surely bleed into miles, tear tracks freezing over as they mingle with the falling snow, and eventually he stops feeling anything at all.

He comes to a stop outside the first bar he finds, blinking up at the neon signs in the window. It takes less than three seconds to make the impulse decision.

“Vodka soda,” he says to the bartender, dropping his duffle into the seat next to him. He holds eye contact with a look that dares him to ask for an ID, or for an explanation of the blood on his lower lip and his shirt, but Jaime knows, and knew from the moment he laid eyes on the place, that it isn’t the kind of establishment who gives a shit. Which is exactly what he needs.

“Open a tab?” The man confirms his suspicions, reaching for a glass.

Jaime swallows.

“Yeah.” He lays his debit card down on the counter, knowing full well that when he runs it at the end of the night, it will decline. That’s a problem for later. If things go according to plan, Jaime will be far too fucked up by then to care. He watches his card disappear, and takes the bubbling drink that is set in its place.

Jaime doesn’t drink. Aside from the rare beer or two Derek would place in his hand the few times he managed to drag him to a party, he never has. So he doesn’t know what to expect when he takes the first sip, but he finds it matters very little that he hates the taste. He takes back the whole glass, sets it down, and locks eyes with the man behind the counter again.

He knocks back a second in less than a minute. He doesn’t start to feel it until he’s halfway through his third. Which makes the fourth go down like water.

By drink number five, the bar has started to fill out, the Saturday night crowds coming in from the cold to press against each other under the glow of string lights and too-loud music from the old fashioned juke-box in the corner. Jaime moves through them, languid and syrupy as the thoughts in his head, carried by the sway of bodies. When the air starts to get too thick with heat, he stumbles to the bathroom and throws up into a toilet that’s missing both a seat and a lid, then goes to the bar to order a drink that will wash the taste out of his mouth.

He dances with a few men, he thinks. It doesn’t start that way. At first, he just moves to the music, letting the warmth of the alcohol and the driving beat carry him out of his own head. But he doesn’t fight it, not at first, as men begin approaching him. It starts to get blurry, and their hands all start to blend together; groping at his hips, his stomach, his ass until it’s all too much, too much, and suddenly he’s closing his eyes and seeing his roommate’s shadow over his bed and he’s… he’s…

Jaime extracts himself, stumbling back to the bar.

“Why don’t we take it easy?” the motion blur that used to be the bartender’s face tells him when he tries to order another.

“‘m fine,”Jaime slurs back, hands gripping the edge of the bar.

“Uh huh. Here.” A glass slides across the wooden surface. Jaime takes a drink and winces. “It’s water. You’re cut off.”

“Come on.” The desperation in his own voice seeps through his drunkenness. If he gets kicked out now, he has a long, cold night ahead of him. He can’t go back to the shelter. He had sealed that door shut himself. He knows his best bet is to stay here until last call, somewhere around three or four in the morning, and then maybe he can get away with a few hours of sleep on a bus.

Another idea occurs to him, one that, if he’s honest with himself, has been kindling in the back of his mind since he came upon the bar. Maybe on some level, it was his plan all along. His eyes scan over the crowd, faces blurring together as he deliberates the possibility of going home with one of these strangers. Sleeping in their bed. It won’t be the romantic kind of first time people fantasize about, but Jaime’s life is far from a fantasy, so why should this be any different?

It’s a survival tactic. That’s it. 

This is what his life has become.

“Jesus Christ, kid.” The bartender’s voice pulls him back to the moment, spinning him back toward the bar. He’s holding Jaime’s debit card.

Shit. He is suddenly all-too sober for this.

“Come on. Five drinks in and you hand me a bullshit card?”

“‘s not bullshit,” Jaime tries. The man raises an eyebrow. “Try it again.”

“I think we both know that’s not gonna help,” he says. “You got cash?”

Jaime’s eyes start to fill with tears, so he squeezes the edge of the wood until his fingers throb. “No,” he says quietly.

“Another card, then?” the bartender tries, the slightest hint of sympathy behind his tone this time. “Look, I really don’t want to have to get the cops involved over this.”

A hysterical bubble of laughter lodges itself in his throat. It’s a show of how far he has fallen that his first thought is how a night in jail would at least give him somewhere fucking warm to sleep. Maybe the offense would even be small enough to let him walk with a warning tomorrow.

Maybe he should offer the bartender another form of payment. He’s already resigning himself to this fate when a body slides into the barstool next to him, interrupting.

“Put it on mine,” the man in the dark button-up shirt tells the bartender. Jaime watches him reach into his pocket and pull out a leather wallet, the muscles in his exposed forearms twitching as he thumbs through it. He pulls out a black card that looks like it has a higher credit limit than Jaime’s entire net worth and taps it against the counter.

The bartender looks warily from Jaime, back to the man, then takes the card and turns back to the register. Only then does the stranger turn his stool toward Jaime.

“Tough night, huh?” he asks, not-so-subtly eyeing his disheveled appearance.

“I didn’t ask you to do that,” Jaime says.

A flicker of amusement lights up behind the man’s eyes. He smiles. “I’m aware.”

“I’m just saying. If you did this because you’re looking to get something out of it…” He stops. The response is immediate, reflexive, because he knows a thing or two about shrugging off unwanted attention from men, but tonight is different. He remembers the tentative plan from earlier and can’t help but feel, with a twinge of bitter amusement, like this opportunity has just fallen into his lap.

“Then what?” the man challenges, tilting his chin forward.

Jaime feels his face redden even further, an unpleasant warmth spreading beneath his already glowing cheeks. He looks down at the bar, shame knocking against the wall of his inebriation.

“Hey.” His eyes draw back up again at the sudden softness in the man’s tone. “I’m not looking for anything like that. Promise.”

He has a moment to weigh the likelihood of that truth as the bartender comes back to him. “Want to keep it open?” he asks.

“Would a coffee be possible, if you have it?” the man asks politely. He nods. “Perfect. Just one of those, then you can close it out.”

“Cream and sugar?” the bartender asks.

Jaime doesn’t realize the question is directed at him until the man taps twice on the back of his hand. “Oh.” He blinks, looking up at the bartender. “Um. Sure. Yes, please.”

He takes a long drink of his water as the bartender dips into the kitchen, using the opportunity to study the strange man beside him. He looks to be somewhere in his thirties, with cropped, brown hair and the hint of a five-o’clock shadow peppered over his pronounced jawline. He looks strong. Not particularly unkind. Jaime can think of worse alternatives to sleep with if the evening goes the way he thinks it might, despite this man’s promises.

“What makes you think I wanted coffee?” Jaime asks, placing the glass back on the counter.

“Not so much a matter of want,” the man replies smoothly. “You look like you could do with some sobering up.”

“What makes you think I want to be sober?”

The soft chuckle nearly startles Jaime. “Fair enough. Well, drink it or don’t. It’s up to you,” he says as the bartender returns with a steaming, white mug. “Can I at least have your name?”

“Jeremy,” he mutters automatically, taking a careful sip.

“Are you lying to me?”

“No.”

“I think you might be, Jaime.”

He is suddenly a little more sober. Jaime stiffens in his seat, one hand tightening absently around the strap of his duffle bag, prepared to run. Then the man laughs again, this time a bright, sparkling sound.

“Your card,” he says, pointing to the bright green debit card still lying open on the counter, his full name in bold font across the bottom. The muscles in his body suddenly decompress. “You should probably put that away.”

Jaime swipes the card off the countertop, shoving it into his pocket. “Not like there’s anything to steal on it,” he mutters.

It’s the first of many pieces of information he will live to regret spilling to this man in the bar.

“I’m Rich, by the way,” the man says.

Jaime scoffs, taking another drink of his coffee. “Yeah, I can tell.”

That laugh again. “I meant my name. Richard. But you can call me Rich if you’d like.”

“Not Dick?”

“That suits me, too, I suppose.” Rich gives Jaime a wry, slightly chastising grin. “So. What’s with the bag?”

Jaime can feel the bitter pull of the coffee trying to bring him back to himself, but his lips are still as loose as his limbs. He really doesn’t mean to, but against all instinct, he finds himself talking.

And talking.

And talking.

It’s not until the words are already spilling out of him that Jaime realizes he hasn’t had anyone to talk to about any of the events of the past two months or how he feels about it, or how absolutely alone and terrified he is about his immediate and long term future.

When Richard lays a gentle hand over Jaime’s wrist, a thumb rubbing over his cold skin, he realizes for the first time how good it feels to have someone, anyone, listen to him. He tells him about his parents, about growing up in foster care and bouncing between group homes. He tells him about getting into college and playing soccer and making friends and a life and building a future for himself, and how he was forced to watch it all crumble. He tells him… all of it. Everything. Too much.

By the time he realizes he is crying, he has already lost control. There is no composing himself now. The coffee that was meant to sober him up clearly isn’t working, and Jaime has reached his breaking point five drinks deep in the hands of a stranger. And somehow, he only feels even more drunk than he was before. He puts his head down on the sticky countertop, inhaling the scent of booze and something sickly sweet as he tries to catch his breath between sobs. A warm, solid hand lands on his back, rubbing gently between his shoulder blades.

Distantly, the bartender’s voice floats back into orbit somewhere vaguely overhead. “Hey, is your friend alright there?”

“He’s fine.” He detects a bit of an edge in Richard’s voice. “Just a little over served.”

“Well, he can’t stay here. Not like that.”

“I’ll get him out of your hair.”

Jaime has only the vaguest awareness of leaving the bar. There is a temperature change from stuffy-hot to freezing-cold, and the sound of the crowd chatter and the music goes out like someone has stuffed a pillow over his ears.

It takes extraordinary effort to peel his eyelids open--that is only once he realized they were closed at all--and when he does, he sees they are in a parking lot behind the building. Rich… Richard’s arm is around his waist, practically holding him up. Jaime has the brief mental image of himself as a marionette puppet in the man’s hands, moving only with the pull and release of strings. He thinks he tries to laugh, but what comes out sounds more like another sob.

“Where…” He blinks hard, falling further into Richard’s side. He has even more difficulty opening his eyes this time. “Where’s… my bag?”

“I have your things,” Richard says, moving them forward.

“I’m cold,” Jaime tries to say. He wants to ask if Richard will hand him his coat from his bag, but suddenly he is having a hard time moving his lips. His words are trapped somewhere just below his throat.

“Shh.” Richard’s voice is so close to him now, Jaime can feel the heat of his breath against his skin. It’s the only warmth around. “Don’t worry, kiddo. You’ll be nice and warm soon.”

And then there’s… 

Oh god. 

No.

There’s a rag…a, a cloth, there’s-- there’s something being pressed over his mouth and his nose and Jaime can’t… He can’t breathe. His eyes burst open with the surge of panic, a rattle of adrenaline before his body gives out, and in that flash of vision he sees the brick wall and a green dumpster and… and a black SUV. The back hatch is open.

He wants to scream--he tries to, but the moment the hand over his nose loosens just enough to allow him air, his lungs pull in the deepest breath they can get, and he feels himself melt back against the solid weight behind him, limbs going limp and lifeless.

“There we go,” he hears from a thousand miles away as his eyes slip shut. “Lights out.”

<< Previous | Next >>

***

TAG LIST: @whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing @whumptywhumpdump @nicolepascaline @anotherbluntpencil @hold-him-down @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @batfacedliar-yetagain @thecyrulik @pumpkin-spice-whump  @melancholy-in-the-morning @also-finder-of-rings @insaneinthepaingame @skyhawkwolf @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @dont-touch-my-soup

[livingforthewhump]

This is just. plot.

First Previous Next

—

“Vert?”

He hadn’t stopped pacing for hours, fingers tapping nervously against his legs. Every few minutes he would turn to his desk, shuffling through papers restlessly before realizing there was no progress to be made. And the pacing would resume.

“Vert.” Siren slapped down the pile of papers she was looking through. “You’re making me dizzy.”

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, running a hand through his hair.

Siren snorted slightly at the way it left it, sticking it up at odd angles. “You shouldn’t be sorry, just… sit down and tell me what you’re thinking.”

Vert hesitantly crossed the room, perching by the edge of the papers strewn across his mattress. Missing Persons cases, to try and figure out who it was Paladin was holding captive.

“It has to be more than just him,” Vert said, a frown etched deep on his face. It always was there when he was thinking, leaving a little furrow between his eyebrows. It was cute.

“What do you mean?” Siren asked, unfolding her legs from under her and pulling them to her chest instead. “Context, Vert.”

“Paladin. He has to have captured more than just the vigilante.”

Siren raised an eyebrow, gesturing for him to elaborate.

“Paladin said in the video that he thought the vigilante was one of us—which isn’t true, but because he thought it was, it means he assumes there’s some motive for us to go after him. More so than we already do. We don’t just send in reckless attacks, especially if nothing has changed. And since he didn’t find the situation off, or demand to know why we would send someone, it means he already knows why we would send someone in such a seemingly desperate move.” Vert stared unseeing at the newspapers beside him as he worked through his logic, hands clenched into fists so his fingernails dug into his palm.

“So Paladin has something that we want, but we don’t know we want. Why does that have to be a person?” She asked, trying to sift through the information he’d just given her.

Because it always is with them.

“Because of this.” He pulled out the footage he’d gone to get for Mel earlier. It had arrived shortly before Paladin’s video message got there, and he had taken the liberty of studying it as part of this research.

Siren eyed the screen with interest.

“It’s been one of our most recent priorities. The girl there is a mystery. She seems to be a villain, but Paladin always stops her before she actually does anything. The vigilante always shows up before Paladin. Look.”

Sure enough, the vigilante from Paladin’s video sauntered onscreen and instantly began talking.

“She’s not reacting to him at all,” Siren said, impressed. Vert didn’t respond, focused on the footage.

A few moments later, Paladin showed up, but he seemed strangely more hostile towards the vigilante.

“It seems like whoever this guy is, he was already causing Paladin problems,” Siren deduced.

“But that’s the thing.” Vert looked at her, hazel eyes sparking. “This is the first time they interact. He’d stayed out of Paladin’s way before, so if Paladin has anything against him, it’s because of this.”

He gestured back towards the video, where Paladin had now moved his fight against the girl outside where a crowd had gathered.

“He specifically staged the fight to get the most attention possible.”

Siren frowned noncommittally. “Vert, this is Paladin. He does that with all of his fights.”

“But he doesn’t usually stop people from interfering that carelessly unless he has something planned beforehand. When he has a plan to enact, though, he doesn’t care about the collateral he leaves behind.” Vert looked so determined, so decided in his belief, that his face alone was almost enough to convince Siren.

She sighed, backing off a little. “So you’re suggesting that she’s somehow in league with him?”

“Not willingly. Did you see how little she reacted to anything that happened?”

“I guess. What are you suggesting?” Siren felt her heart pound a little bit faster in suspense.

Vert looked at her solemnly. “Paladin has telepathic powers. Just how much do you think he could do with them, if he wanted?”

Her breath snagged in her throat. “He likes being in control.” She echoed words Mel had said to her, but her own voice sounded distant. “So you think the vigilante figured it out and tried to save her.”

“Mhm.” Vert flipped the video off, turning fiddling with the empty screen for a moment and looking like he might start pacing again at any second.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?”

He sighed, standing back up. “I don’t know how long it’ll take us to get a rescue together. Mel is ruthless, but she’s not careless. I don’t know what will happen to them in the meantime, but I know I want them out of there as soon as possible.”

“Vert, if you’re trying to get me to join you in a suicide rescue mission, I’m going to smack you,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

Vert huffed a surprised laugh. “Don’t worry, you’d have to get in line if that was my plan. No, I’m going to try and get Sai to help.”

“What? You can’t do that!” Siren protested automatically.

He looked confused, as if he hadn’t considered not doing it before. “Why not?”

“He’s a self-proclaimed villain. Isn’t he everything The Agency is against?” Now it was Siren’s hands that were clenched into fists, her whole body tense.

“We’re only against state-sanctioned heroes. Sai is on our side.”

“No, he’s not. Our side is about the morals, isn’t it? There shouldn’t be the power imbalance of heroes and villains. Magical abilities shouldn’t give you automatic social status.” She looked at him, waiting for him to agree.

“Right,” he said slowly.

“So it also matters how you fight against the problem. You can’t fight fire with fire, and you can’t fight immoral behavior with immoral behavior. Do you know what methods he uses to get what he wants?”

“I’m guessing not ones you approve of.” Vert’s arms were crossed, and all of a sudden he seemed very closed off.

Siren softened, sitting back. “I’m sorry. I know your relationship with him is important to you. Just please, don’t make him interfere with this.”

“…okay. Fine.”

—

Taglist (let me know if you want to be added or removed): @lonesome--hunter @whole-and-apart-and-between @written-to-death @ill-eat-you-if-you-cross-me @villain-enthusiast @hurting-fictional-people @kixngiggles @lave-whump @whumpfessional @tropes-for-my-md-daydreams @1phoenixfeather @chartreusephoenix @kemonoinuzuka @sunflower1000 @1becky1 @multifandoms-multishipper @susanshinning @shadowylemon @onestopheroxvillain @cherryblossomskye @freefallingup13 @basica11yg33ky

[pythagoreanwhump]

Are you interested in spies and soldiers captured behind enemy lines and in pain?

Do you enjoy political intrigue and state-sanctioned violence?

Come check out our discord server Behind Enemy Lines! It has categories for whump discussion, character chat, and writing talk, as well as space for RP. Roles and channels are named according to the military and espionage theme, and you can join a pointless friendly server rival between agents and soldiers!

[newbornwhumperfly]

it started out as a feeling...

CW: stress position, wrist trauma, blood, cigarette burns, modern slavery, slave-soldiers, discussion of war, references to abuse 

tagging: @haro-whumps, @whumping-every-day, @whumpthisway, @lave-e, @stoic-whumpee, @swordkallya, @whumpster-draganies @liliability

so. i Finally wrapped up my first installment of a whump series i’ve planned for ages after enormous support from fellow whomp-bloggers, many brainstorm sessions, amazing people drawing amazing art, & kind questions from people asking about original content <3<3<3

this wouldn’t happen w/to @haro-whumps cause they’ve been utterly invaluable <3<3<3 not only have i gained an enthusiastic cheerleader and beta but a good friend. thank you from the bottom of my heart :)))) 

title from “the call” by regina spektor

it’s Quite Long & exposition heavy but i promise - it gets angstier :)))

~       

July. 13.

Author: Captain Abraxas Hutchins.

Confidential Situation Report: cc; TATT Commander’s Guild

In this ninth official year in the conflict between New Athens and Upper Tyrus, I agree with general assessments that the cold war has heated significantly. In the past three years in particular, we have seen a sharp increase in subterfuge and sabotage towards essential operations.

Though skirmishes at both borders have become more frequent, our greatest concern regarding national security appears to be increasing levels of assination and data theft from New Athenian agents against the state of Tyrus (in both Upper and Lower Regions).

I understand that several commanding officers at TATT (Tyrus Anti-Terrorism Taskforce) are concerned about several bombings in the past three years as they are believed to be the efforts of New Athenian covert agents (unverified but probable). Despite the violent nature of these bombings, it is my opinion that the theft of data (as well as targeted assassinations) be considered PRIORITY. I consider it New Athenian strategy to cripple our operations.

(NOTED OBJECTION: My team sniper and fellow threat-analyst Cdr. Jorah Cuthbert’s assessment considers these bombings PRIORITY due to initial attacks causing military casualties, and some civilian, casualties.)

Though we have strengthened forces along our borders, even maintaining several “watchtower” outposts in the “Wasteland” region between Tyrus and New Athens, such security measures have failed to prevent the aforementioned acts of aggression.

Despite intense vigilance and dogged pursuit, no New Athenian covert agents have ever been successfully interrogated for high-value information and those few we have managed to apprehend committed suicide (or were assassinated) in custody and, since, before capture. 

OPINION: A renewed focus on the apprehension, detainment, and interrogation (NOT “ENHANCED INTERROGATION”) of a New Athenian covert agent would reap invaluable rewards in data-gathering, threat-analysis, and contributing to a stalemate in this crisis.

Though neither government has declared an official state of war, the political tensions of the past two decades have culminated in acts of aggression that might soon bring negotiation and diplomacy to their breaking points. The Tyrus Parliament’s recent statement is that they intend to “aggressively protect” mineral mining expansions into the borders of South “Wasteland” territory “with Legion support if necessary  (Senator Gilroy, Parliamentary Address, June 22). Such mineral expansions will certainly extend to Raetean coastal territory, which would inevitably result in clashes with Athenian security forces protecting land development projects conducted by New Athenian government). 

In my assessment, this will exacerbate tensions further between our nations. The Islands of Raetea off the coast of New Athens continue to suffer, with recent blockades and Tyrus sanctions increasing Raetea’s economic crisis, which has only worsened over the past four years. It is very likely that there will be a new wave of refugees into the state of New Athens as a result of tensions between Tyrus and Athenian operations, similar to what we observed at the unofficial start of this conflict over a decade ago. Consequent economic burdens and the optics of this influx of refugees will contribute to pro-war sentiment in New Athens.

It is my view that if the Legion must communicate with Parliament that if state negotiators do not increase their efforts--

Brax paused in their writing as another pang shot through their wrist.

Blinking against the blue dots which hovered in their periphery, they set down their stylus to stretch the kinks out of their aching fingers. They really needed to finish their sit-rep before noon tomorrow but there was no harm in pausing for some tea. Oh, and they still needed to get Jorah’s electronic signature before they sent off the document…

Allowing a groan to break through the stifling silence, Brax glared balefully at the slow-spinning ceiling fan.

It is an inanimate object.

It cannot feel your recrimination and will not go faster.

Rational, reasonable facts which didn’t stop them from glaring harder at the offending blades, languidly batting the warm air from corner to corner. Sweat began to dampen Brax’s robe a mere minute after they slipped it on, clinging to their back as they rose from the bed and strode to pour themself another cup of Darjeeling. It was a sign of how oppressive summer had become that the heat bothered them enough to glare at a goddamn ceiling fan.

Or maybe it was just this report.

Brax’s eyes throbbed to match their hands as their gaze tracked the bubbles rolling in the coffee-maker and thinking, suddenly, how they would rather do this than spend another minute on this report.

A report they had written before, in fewer, less urgent words. Perhaps they would come to write it so often that they could pen it with their eyes closed.

Brax was not born for...this.

Analyzing data for larger patterns, working with people to coalesce them into workable teams, untangling the knots of complex problems - it was all Brax’s bread and butter.

They just never thought they’d be doing it in service of a war.

Especially not such a war as this, which stretched on, cold and quiet as perpetual winter, for years upon years with no official frontline, no certain death toll, and no end in sight. It crept like frost through even the most iron structures of their society, the bite of corruption and desperation corroding from within, unrelenting attacks from without. A conflict that Brax had seen steal the best of their generation, silently and suddenly, into the night.

Alright, that decided it. Melatonin with their tea it was. Brax reminded themself not to make this a habit as they tapped two pills into their palm before they carried a steaming mug back to their bedside.

A fair and direct fight was more their speed.

Well, technically their speed was to avoid fights if at all possible but the past few years with the Legion had taught Brax that the thin line between caution and cowardice was easily crossed - regardless of intent.

They were not so foolish to hope to keep their innocence but they intended to keep their worldview intact, despite how determined the world seemed to shatter their views. They would not allow their intelligence to be broken into shards of cynicism and brutal practicality.

But in such a war as this, intelligence was never undervalued and Brax’s reputation for swift, sure judgement had left their opinion heavily in demand. They had heard the call and gone from analyzing political conflict behind a desk to the field with surprising ease, mirrored in their meteoric ascent through the ranks. 

Though they often wished for their cramped desk and stale coffee, they knew they were needed here and could not now resent being so pressed for their help.

Which is why they didn’t have much of a right to be surprised when a knock, heavy and booming, rapped against the door of their quarters.

Brax allowed themself a regretful blink at their unswallowed pills and undrunk tea before setting them down delicately, not at all with a disgruntled thud, before striding to the door.

Cobi had the decency to look a little rueful when faced with his commanding officer, haggard and bleary, clad in only a robe.

“This had better be damn important, Lt. Pfeffer,” Brax attempts to be wry but the strain in their voice rather diminishes the humor. “My Darjeeling has melatonin in it.”

“Yeah, uh, yes, Captain. Ok, uh…”

Cobi hesitated, chewed his lip as his mighty hands flexed, clenched white-knuckled, and suddenly Brax knew that shit was about to go down.

“Captain, someone...an Athens agent crossed the border. Like, just fuckin’ walked right into an outpost and, uh, gave themself up. This morning. So, uh. Yeah. Guessing that’s important, Captain.”

Well.

It seemed that report was going to have to wait.

~

The government car felt too small and too hot as it rocketed through the thick, buggy dark and Brax once again resisted the urge to adjust their shirt collar.

Putting the heat, and the thought that they really should have changed their undershirt, to the side, they glanced at the car’s digital clock.

02:45

They didn’t think the driver would notice if they fixed their appearance but Brax preferred not to bring undue attention to the sloppy adjustment of their hastily donned uniform. Repressing a sigh, Brax scrolled through their data-pad, sweaty fingers slipping on the screen as they skimmed through the electronic sit-rep.

\

At approx. 22:10, a New Athens covert agent approached a Wasteland outpost.

The agent was bound and searched. The agent was unarmed and scans revealed no explosive devices or any other weapons. The uniform was confiscated to search for bugs. Upon interrogation, the agent would only state name, serial number, and desire to speak to someone in the command structure. The agent has been restrained securely to prevent possible suicide.

Stated name: Morja (Serial #:13308)

Approx. 5’, 5-6”

Approx. late 20’s to early 30’s

Brown skin (possible Raetean descent - known to be typical for covert agents)

Health Status: no diseases, no medical conditions known

No current, major injuries noted. 

/

Once again, Brax’s eyes drifted inexorably towards the clock’s bright glare.

02:47

Shit.

Time crept like the dark fields beyond the tinted window, too slow and yet too quick, as Brax struggled to grasp their prided equilibrium. Yet they felt like it was slipping from their grip like the datapad through sweaty hands.

The security bureau likely felt they were already lagging too far behind this development. This interview ought to have happened hours ago. Brax needed more time, more information, to interrogate this agent. They needed to know if this agent had previous contact with Tyrus forces.

They need more time.

The truth was that, despite the considerable efforts of Tyrus' intelligence agents, they had very little notion of how covert assassins were trained on the other side. Even the recruitment process was shrouded in mystery and misinformation, but many analysts suspected that service was..less than voluntary. They knew that impressment targeted Raetean refugees, third-class citizens, and often poor prisoners, all conscripted with grand offers of security - or, as Brax recalled with a gag from a propaganda newsclip, “the service of the lesser so the great will prosper”.

These agents started young and desperate, understandably - easy to break into desirable moulds. New Athenian agents fought with fervent loyalty on par with religious devotion, with most Tyrus citizens considering these agents devout to their nation like cultists to their faith.

Brax did not entirely buy that.

Being trained (likely brutally) and indoctrinated with nationalist gratitude since youth, plucked from a miserable existence. Especially where the third-tier citizens and refugees often died of untreated illness, ration shortage, and climate poisoning.

Choice was all well and good to praise when one has never had...no choice.

There was also the fact that treason, dissension, any sort of breaking ranks - all punished with a proud severity typical to an authoritarian state. Add these all together and a nation gets a loyal stock of “servants”, bound for life to die for a state which did not seem to care how many they lost as long as they achieved their goals: the prosperity of the great.

They need to focus on the details at hand.

They need beads of sweat to stop rolling off the dome of their head, trickling to the wire-rimmed lens and clinging to the glasses, refusing to fall.

Ignore it.

One thing was quite certain - Brax had no idea what to expect.

~

The atmosphere in the outpost bunker buzzed with anticipation, goosebumps rising along Brax’s arms even in the sweltering air, as they stepped down into the building. Two fresh-faced lieutenants stood at restless attention and once Brax stepped into the room the fidgeting figures snapped out their salutes, hand to forehead, with a nervous, jerky speed.

A reedy blonde, the sergeant in charge, seemed to barely keep herself from crossing her arms across her body, hands making abortive gestures towards her torso as she briefed Brax on the situation. She was sweating dark stains through her uniform and her mouth ticked sporadically, twisting into a small, hard shape.

Brax knew all the information given but they allowed her the extra minute to grit the story through her teeth. She clearly needed this.

Nodding sharply at her conclusion, Brax inquired and was led to where the agent was being held, a small soundproof room with a heavy steel door.

“Under no circumstances am I to be interrupted - is that clear?”

Satisfied by the brisk nods of their wide-eyed subordinates, Brax gripped the cell’s door handle harder than necessary as they input the code with slow, steady presses of a slippery finger. Taking a moment to cycle through all known factors in their head, they allowed their shoulders to drop and slipped on the politely inquisitive neutrality of their game-face.

As they stepped, resolutely, over the threshold of the cell, their eyes adjusted to the dark room and they finally laid eyes on the agent in question.

A stocky figure, likely short in stature, thickly muscled limbs, dressed in a Tyrus Legion issue slacks and teeshirt. Even in the low light, Brax could see the agent was dark in complexion, with the brown skin and black hair typical of Raetean citizens.

“Likely” short, Brax noted, since no real gauge could be made of the figure’s height since said figure was on their knees, shackled.

Their ankles and shins had been tightly bound together, leaving the figure to balance in an uneven kneel, straining the broad shoulders where their arms had been drawn back and up to the wall, where their clenched hands were bound in thick, steel cuffs.

Shit. That was just wonderful, wasn’t it? They knew the agent would surely be cuffed - they had been handed keys after all - but nobody had mentioned...stress positions.

Just as well. Brax’s opinion on the outpost’s flirtation with torture was well-known amongst superiors and subordinates alike. They didn’t need their blood up. Ir would have been nice if these soldiers hadn’t played fast and loose with protocol. But the reprimand can wait, Brax sternly reminded themself. Focus on the task at hand.

As the door swung heavily shut behind Brax, the figure raised their head slowly.

A dim glow from the one dangling bulb threw shifting shadows onto a rugged face - thinly bearded, a wide brow, chin and nose, the broad bridge crooked from an old break. Their mouth was pressed into a thin, hard line. Their thick, jet-black hair gleamed with perspiration, the sweat-drenched locks watermarking the pale green of their shirt-shoulders. 

The low light accented thick scars ridging the bronze flesh: a wide mark swooping over his nose, slashing through a thick right brow, curving below the left cheekbone, and a jagged mark splitting the tender skin below one of their dark, deep-set eyes.

Those eyes glinted for a moment, alighting on Brax’s face before flicking away, settling blankly somewhere around the fourth button of Brax’s uniform.

No further movement, not even a change in breathing, from the agent. No flicker of expression disturbed the blankness of their face. Only steady blinking and a cadenced swell of the broad chest indicated that they were even alive.

Well, they were a stoic one, that was certain.

If they were as smart as they must be, they were either suppressing terror at their predicament (likely) or smug certainty in some nefarious ploy (plausible but less certain).

Brax let the air simmer for a few more moments before striding with purpose towards the figure, ready to undo their bonds. At their first certain step, every line in the agent’s body tautened, rigid as a sail in the wind, as their rhythmic breaths quickened - shallowly, shortly out, deeply, swiftly in.

So - the former.

Reassured by a confirmation of their assessment, though less pleased to be a source of distress, Brax made quick work of the restraints.

They stepped back, giving the agent a moment to straighten up and rub their wrists. The figure’s gaze flicked to Brax’s face, brow nearly creasing into a furrow before smoothing once more. They allowed their arms to fall and settle stiffly on their lap, settling on their knees and settling their gaze once more upon Brax’s waist.

Alright then - no aggression, no combative expression, nothing but complete submission so far.

Good cop it is then - good.

Sinking to one knee, Brax tried to seek out the agent’s eyes but that dark gaze remained lowered, so Brax focused on keeping their voice low and soft.

“Hello, Morja, my name is Captain Abraxas Hutchins. I was told you wanted to talk to someone higher in the ranks, so, you got me. Can you tell me what it is you want?”

An intake of breath, sharp and sudden.

Brax would almost call it a gasp and their close observance caught the figure’s eyes flickering with something like shock. If the agent was bewildered or shocked, however, they recovered swiftly, their soft burr revealing no more emotion than their stony face.

“Anóteros, I came to...offer my service to Tyrus.”

....Well. Alright. Well.

Brax allowed themself a blink. Taking a moment to process this statement.

“Are you...are you telling me that you’re surrendering?”

“...Yes, anóteros.”

The agent opened their mouth, paused, spoke once their gaze flickered over Brax’s nod of encouragement.

“I am… deserting New Athens. I… offer my service to this nation. I will offer information. I will fight. I will….do whatever you want.”

The way that the agent spoke, measuring each word as some fragile and heavy thing, sat uneasily with Brax. So did being called “master” or “superior” or whatever that word meant.

As the agent’s palms stiffened, flexing upon their thighs, their close proximity allowing Brax to note the copious scars and burns (some little and disturbingly round) littered upon those wide hands. Brax kept noting that too, the broadness of the figure before them and how often they forgot the size in light of the demeanor. Their shoulders did not hunch, their head did not hang low, but they projected absolute submission.

I am not a threat. I am small and harmless. You do not need to hurt me.

Brax did not need psych-profile terminology at the moment. They could almost hear Sarai’s murmurous meandering on abuse survivors and body language, atypical trauma symptoms, and all the things Brax knew too much about for a lifetime. This agent’s possible history with abuse was an issue for the aforementioned team medic and therapist to ponder if she wished.

Brax was here to assess potential threats.

They were not at all influenced by how the shift of movement drew their eyes to the cruel grooves in the agent’s wrists, deep and ugly crimson, the clear marks of viciously fastened zip-ties.

Not in the least.

Skin on the left wrist had broken and blood sluggishly trickled from the cruel, red circle.

“Do your wrists hurt?”

The agent’s eyes snapped up, fixing Brax with another brief flicker of astonishment. It lasted a mere moment before the agent lowered their gaze. They shifted, their lips parted, shut, parted again.

“Don’t lie - are you in any pain?”

The agent visibly twitched this time, nodding quickly.

Brax would not be accused of being soft by most people. Secretive, observant, strict - usual adjectives whispered regarding the taciturn leader. But for all Brax had purposefully cultivated their reputation of principled sternness, they hoped to be accused of compassion just as often.

What was the use of incisive insight, being able to read people fairly, assess their intentions accurately, and deal with them rightfully if they could not extend it to someone right in front of them?

Well, they would rather be damned for humanity anyhow.

Rising from their haunches, Brax strode to the door and rapped sharply, demanding a first-aid kit from the blinking officer. After some fumbling in cabinets beneath the open stares from frozen compatriots, the officer handed over the item.

Brax traded their crouch for a kneel, mirroring the pose of the rigid agent while they fished some analgesic ointment out of the kit.

“Hold out your hands for me?”

The figure obeyed without a moment of hesitation, palms spread and forearms balanced in tandem.

Brax hummed in approval, cleaning their own hands with alcohol before hovering a fresh wipe over the maimed flesh.

“This is going to sting but the ointment will help with that in a minute.”

The agent did not so much as wince, palms perfectly still as Brax swiped at the gashes as swiftly as they could. Despite the lack of reaction, the agent’s wrists likely felt aflame at the disinfectant.

“So, stop me if I’m wrong. As I understand it, you’re…”

Brax balanced two words on their tongue. Defecting? The alcohol swab snagged a pucker of scar. Round. Diverted. Still pink, a few years old.

“...fleeing. And you want to cooperate, work with us willingly, yes?”

A nod.

“Have any of your anótero ordered you to surrender yourself?”

The agent twitched but their mouth pulled down in another flash of bewilderment.

“No, sir,...New Athens does not infiltrate. I am...committing treason by being here. Even...even by speaking to you, anoóteros, I would be...executed.”

Dry tracks of crimson had eked down the agent’s forearms from their downward angle.

“Then why are you here? What do you want?”

Peeling the wrapper off another wipe, Brax began cleaning those trails, smothering a frown as the stale air thickened with the sharp, metal scent of blood and alcohol.

“I...believe that there is a better way. For my people. A better way that those at the head will not see, will never see. It is not…their way. The only way to save...to have this better way is to end the conflict. To dismantle central operations in New Athens until there is no choice but to change things.”

“So you want to use y-their own tactics against them?”

“They are effective, anóteros.”

A fair point.

“And…”

Brax hummed in question and after a strained beat of silence, the agent continued.

“In e-exchange...for an active policy of recruitment of Athenian agents, taken in alive.”

Well.

“You, you think other agents will defect.”

“...I do.”

Well.

“I see.”

Brax focuses their attention on a crusted clump of blood at the agent’s pulse point, dabbing wetly and turning the information over, the blunt shock of the agent’s words tumbling through their mind. The heat pressed against Brax’s skin, thickened like a cap against their skull, they needed to think.

They need to let their instincts guide them.

“So those are your, uh, conditions for cooperating with us?”

“And I will not execute civilian targets - on either side.”

For the first time, steel edged the tone, the words all weight and no hesitation.

Brax had no counter to this so they merely hummed.

Crumpling bloodied wipes into the kit, Brax dolloped ointment onto their fingertips and began rubbing it into the cuts, grateful for the waft of peppermint which broke up the morbid odor and finally fully gazing up at their patient.

The agent regarded Brax openly, eyes glinting with a bright mixture of caution, bewilderment, and something very much like awe. That look pinned Brax. It seemed that those eyes were shocked into aching vulnerability from an act of simple kindness and it made Brax...unsettled.

“Better?”

“...Y-yes, anóteros.”

“Ah. You don’t need to call me that.”

That little furrow deepened between the agent’s brows.

“Anoóteros. If it makes you more comfortable, I don’t object to it. But I’m not requiring you to call me ‘superior’, ok?”

Now the corners of the agent’s mouth creased downwards as their lips parted, pressed together, and their sharp nod followed suit.

“Yes, sir.”

“Call me Captain. Sir’s a bit, ah, inaccurate anyway.”

Brax quirked their lips softly, trying to assuage any potential tension at the correction. They did this with any new subordinate, awkwardly hovering between honorifics in the face of Brax’s...ambiguity. It usually worked well - usually. The agent, however, had ceased to breathe and their fingers stiffened within Brax’s hold.

“I...apologize, s--, Captain.”

“No need.”

Brax dabbed ointment generously into a welt, a rare unbroken patch of wrist-skin rubbed to blister, as they elaborated in the same low, steady tone.

“I have to inform almost everyone that I am genderfluid, since I present as pretty masculine. I go by ‘they’. Being referred to as ‘he’ is fine, it only bothers me if those are the only pronouns someone calls me.”

Satisfied that infection had been successfully belayed, Brax wiped the ointment off their hands and began

tilting their head as they scrutinized the agent’s flat demeanor for cracks, shadows, flickers - searching for any hint of what was going on in their head.

“What about you?”

There was the bewilderment again, the agent pausing, likely weighing their response, stiffening as they finally spoke, somehow quieter and more measured than before.

“...I apologize, Captain. I...I...don’t understand.”

“I’m asking what pronouns you prefer for yourself.”

The agent’s chest rose, fell, rose and fell quicker as their proffered arms quivered, the creases flattened and deepening across their face in a waning struggle for neutrality. The body warred with itself before Brax’s eyes, some invisible cord of tension winding tighter as the agent seemed to scramble for an answer. 

Brax quickly thought of the agent’s name as they tried to belay any possible swell of panic by offering up solid bases - affirmation, instruction, guidance.

“Hey, Morja? It’s alright. There is no wrong answer here - just tell me your gender identity, alright.”

“...Yes, Captain. I...am a man.”

“Alright. So you prefer ‘he/him’?”

A quick nod.

“Alright.”

Plucking a bundle of gauze from the kit, Brax ignored the weight of the agent’s gaze on them as they unwound strips of material.

They had watched Morja. Now it was his turn to watch them.

“I understand that agents on your side are trained to be perfect. Perfectly obedient. Perfect killers. I’m sure you understand why I can’t be certain of what you say.”

Only once they began binding Morja’s wrists did they glance up from the softly trembling hands and catch those dark eyes head-on. They were sharp, affixed to Brax’s throat like lodestones, as his brow crinkled in thought. As Brax began tucking the edges of the bandages into the bindings, Morja spoke.

“Tyrus has been searching for a hidden data farm in New Athenian territory. It shows grids of border weaknesses here and to the West and it’s a high-value storage. It is low-security to disguise its importance. I can offer its location and optimal invasion strategy, Captain. I can offer this as proof.”

As Brax stood, gazing down at the agent, their senses were attuned to the utter submission of Morja’s posture, how his eyes were bright with caution, and though his hands still bore the faintest tremor, there was not a hint of deception.

Either he was telling the truth or Brax had never met a better liar.

“Alright. You can lower your arms, Morja.”

The man obeyed and the faint light showed his flat mask slip a fraction.

Brax barely had time to blink before Morja folded at the waist. Spreading his open palms flat, shuffling forward to press his head upon the ground. With his broad back bowed, his dark head brushing Brax’s boots, gauze-swathed hands unfurled as though in prayer, Morja was the perfect picture of supplication.

“Thank you...for your mercy, a-- Captain. Thank you.”

Well...alright.

Brax can process this: rituals of deference, kneeling, no eye contact.

Superior.

Still, a groveling enemy was not their idea of a good Saturday morning.

A wounded, terrified person at Brax’s feet, throwing away all he’d ever known for a change in heart.

A man who Brax had bandaged, thanking them for the mercy.  

“That’s, uh, alright. You’re alright. You can get up.”

Without looking to see how he responded, Brax strode to the door of the cell, rapping to be let out. When the blonde sergeant swung the door wide, her gaze slid balefully to the shadows behind Brax, eyes like icy chips in her clammy face. Her mouth was a small knot of fury. 

And just like that, Brax made their decision.

“I need a pair of cuffs and the car. He’s coming back to Base Forthill with me.”

Brax swung back to Morja, catching his dark head snap up suddenly, the neon light glinting at the whites of his widened eyes and limning his parted lips in the most blatant show of emotion Brax had yet seen.

Shadows of shock, relief, fear all flitted, swift and pale as moths across Morja’s face before fading away, leaving only the level mask settled staunchly in place.

Brax really hoped they wouldn’t regret this.

And yet, somehow, they didn’t think they would.

~       

i crave validation so tell me what you thought!!!

[rosalind-of-arden]

Sword and Pen Reread, chapter 14

Back to Thomas for this chapter. Time to think entirely too much about how shit works in what’s supposed to be a fun tomb raiding adventure chapter.

Ephemera is Jess’s letter to Callum. Ouch. I didn’t need my heart anyway.

The Tomb of Heron is probably the plot point I have the most difficulty with in this book. An extremely famous inventor’s tomb, right there in Alexandria, and no one’s figured it out until now. Really? A city full of extremely intelligent and highly educated Scholars, plus Burners and smugglers very motivated to get their hands on things that would fuck with the Library, and this tomb stayed untouched for that long?

“The official records said that Heron had died and been cremated.” Then again, this line here hints at an explanation. They erased Heron. Even then, they thought his inventions were too dangerous, and they erased all evidence of his tomb. It says something that they’re in fucking Egypt and people accepted the story that Heron was cremated.

Near the western wall of Alexandria, there is a small, ancient, and badly maintained temple of Thoth where Heron’s tomb is hidden, “surrounded by brickworks and dye shops”.

Seven locks, no one’s gotten past the third. And no one has thought just to dig in from another direction?

“Since raising Poseidon’s avatar from the hidden cavern beneath the harbor, he’d felt... different. Steadier. More his old self, as if the god’s shadow had healed something inside him that the prison had broken. He wasn’t the same. But where he’d been welded together again he felt... stronger.” So... obviously, controlling and activating a giant god automaton that proceeds to wreck entire navies has got to be a big self esteem boost. Thomas needed that. 

It’s also a very dramatic instance of being in control to counter the helplessness of Rome, and in that, it’s just the latest in a string of instances of Thomas taking control of his situation: the various Rays of Apollo, the presses, manipulating and attacking the Burner leader in Philadelphia... Thomas has been reasserting control as consistently as Morgan and Wolfe, really. All of them do better when they’re in control of things.

Also, very interesting bit of spiritual promiscuity here. Thomas calls himself a Protestant earlier in the series, but here he is showing serious reverence toward Heron and having a rather spiritual sounding experience with a Greek god. In the tomb, when he curses, he thinks he ought to be praying instead, but then thinks “surely God would understand.”

And, on a whump note, Thomas might very well also feel steadier just because he’s extremely focused on the task at hand. Like when he was building the Ray of Apollo in the embassy. Definitely some potential for a breakdown post-canon.

The Tomb of Heron has a hidden door that will only open for someone with a Scholar’s band. So the bands date back that far, or at least whatever script in them that the door recognizes does. That or this is evidence that the Library more recently actively worked to hide the tomb - would have had to be before this Archivist because of his notes with Vanya Nikolin that state that he didn’t already know where it was.

Possible theory: it’s the Obscurists who hid it. It took an Obscurist to find it, after all, and at least in recent years, they wouldn’t have been able to go looking for it themselves. Blah, but that doesn’t work with historical timelines from other ephemera. Unless we just go with the theory of all Library-sanctioned history being fucked because it’s been messed with for propaganda purposes.

Thomas learned lock picking from watching Jess. When did this happen? He’s seen Jess pick locks where? Jess had keys in Rome. Philly?Anywhere else? Is this another thing that must have happened on that ship from America to England? Might make for cute fic, anyway.

The High Garda has alchemical breathing masks for fighting fires. All these masks have me wondering what other medical-alchemical hybrid devices exist.

Let’s just keep a running tally of Thomas drooling over admiring Jess, shall we? “extraordinary” at lock picking, “supernaturally quick”, “flexible as an otter”

Thomas wonders if Morgan might be tracking his band. It comes off easily. I have speculated on this in fic form.

Thomas speaks Greek to the sphinx. Not ancient Greek. Just Greek. The sphinx replies in “archaic accents and usages” that Thomas finds challenging, but the two of them seem to be able to understand each other. Interesting clue on language development in Alexandria.

Does this riddle work in Greek? Does a river have a “bed” or a “mouth” in Greek? Ok, fine, getting to language geeky there.

The riddle seems to be fairly easy. How much of the test is the actual riddle and how much is not freaking the fuck out at the sight of the automaton?

Thomas is not good at language or music. He’s not sure about the order of the rainbow. Hints at neurodivergence.

WTF is making the crystals grow and shrink? Alchemy? Or whatever “magic” came before alchemy was actually invented?

Hints that Thomas is not ok: “His breath came in short, unconscious sobs. Despite his concentration, he was afraid.” He’s not as cured as he thinks he is, just distracted from trauma by the tasks he’s focused on. The crystal puzzle overwhelms him enough that he feels powerless and afraid again.  He describes dealing with the crystals as “torturous” more than once, which doesn’t seem like a word choice he’d go for casually. Danger and pain he can’t control are triggering.

Lots of bones and a half-rotted body. Maybe good, well-behaved Scholars believe it when they’re told Heron’s Tomb is a myth, but clearly people have been trying to get in. Did this one test actually kill all the skeletons here? Or did the automata drag the bones into this pile from elsewhere in the tomb?

Heron invented a press. There’s why the Library kept the tomb hidden. Until now, the Library didn’t actually want the tomb opened. They couldn’t erase Heron because his work was too important and famous, but they could control what work was remembered. So the Library spread a bullshit story about the tomb not being real that Scholars accepted because they were warned not to ask questions or killed for trying, and the Library let anyone else who tried to get in die to the traps. Somewhere along the way, someone decided to hide the records of the tomb’s location.

Thomas calls an invention of Heron’s something that “dated back to the very beginnings of the Great Library.” As another data point on Library history.