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whumble-beeee · 10 months

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The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping

The First Day of the Rest of Your Life, pt. 1

Masterlist

CW: disabled whumpee, gun mention, restrained to chair, knife

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[Welcome to The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for super-villains and bounty hunters! In this self-help manual written by villains, for villains, we will go over various techniques, tips and tricks, and other useful skills for all different types of villains needed to keep those pesky heroes safely and securely kidnapped, nicely out of the way for your dastardly deeds!

Torture tips, mind games, knot-tying step-by-steps, and more, all the knowledge you will ever need in order to capture and contain a super-powered person is kept right here, in The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping! Time to seize the day, villain! Heretofore, may your endeavors forever be hero-free!]

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Stan screamed himself awake, but he couldn’t hear anything over the deafening flaring in his ears, his heart racing, body burning, every muscle seizing.

He couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t that there was anything strictly in the way of his breathing, it was just as if his lungs had succumbed to death's dark embrace and were about to glide through to heaven’s pearly gates when some malevolent force clawed into them and ripped them asunder, shoved them back into his body, and ordered them to get back to work.

And they were not happy about it.

Neither were his heart, nor his brain, or any normal bodily function for that matter, because for a brief moment, they all seemed utterly appalled and offended that Stan had the audacity to still be alive.

It only took a couple eternal seconds for his bodily functions to fully reaccept their lot in life, but now he was fully aware of every fiber of his being that insisting “wait, aren’t you supposed to be dead?” which made him immediately spiral into a blind panic.

His chest heaved as it tried to force in air, his head buzzed in a horrible all-consuming way, the lights and colors and sounds around him were all way too bright and loud and whooshing around him faster than he could ever process fully. So he just screamed, begging and needing for it to stop, please, please, he couldn’t take this anymore, anything else but this, please.

Slowly, unfathomably slowly, the panic began to ebb away. His surroundings finally started to infiltrate his overloaded consciousness; the gray concrete, the cinderblock walls, a mostly empty room that immediately set him on edge, because he knew exactly what this type of room was for.

He sat in a chair. Or rather, his arms were wrenched behind him and his wrists were secured to the back of the chair with what must have been twine. Then some ropes connected to his wrists crisscrossed around and across his stomach several times over to keep him bound tight. So it was more like he was imprisoned in the chair.

He thrashed out against the rope, only succeeding in momentarily stealing the breath from his lungs again. No give at all. He held in a sob and blinked the tears away, trying to fight off the angrily buzzing head and desperately weak appendages.

Then he saw him.

Another person in the room; a man sitting in his own chair a few feet away, only with the good fortune to not be tied to it. He held his phone limply in his hand and tilted his head at Stan with some mild amusement, as if he had just paused his internet browsing to watch the captive struggle.

There really wasn’t that much special about him, at least considering he was probably a villain; he dressed like a cyber-punk cowboy, with blond hair, a darker complexion, and a couple of scars scattered about the small amount of skin he had exposed, including a pretty nasty burn scar that peaked out from his collar and up over his jawline. He wore a mask to cover the bottom half of his face, and a tool belt with various little pockets and cases, among which was an actual leather holster housing an actual shining metal gun. It was some sort of old-timey-looking revolver, sparsely decorated to match the rest of the man.

Stan stared wide-eyed at him. He wished that he wasn’t a panicking lurching mess in front of the person who must have been his kidnapper. The guy returned his terrified glare with half-lidded eyes and a light-hearted smile.

“Let-let… Let me go-o.” Stan finally sputtered out.

The man raised an amused eyebrow. “What, no hi, hello? Would have thought you to be the polite type…”

A tickle in the back of Stan’s mind told him that he knew that voice from somewhere, but a much more prominent voice in the front of his mind screamed danger danger DANGER!!

“Let me go!” Stan shouted through gritted teeth, straining against the ropes. The man didn’t so much as flinch. “Let me go and we can forget all about this! I’ll let you off with a warning! But you need to let me go, you have no idea who you’re dealing with here!”

The captor rolled his eyes, slid his phone into his pocket, and casually strolled over to Stan, which Stan reciprocated by leaning back into his chair as much as physically possible. He tried not to eye the revolver too noticeably.

“You’ll let me go off with a warning, huh?” The man teased with a soft lilt. “That’s a relief. Y’know I was worried there for a second, since I’m dealing with THE Stan McKellen, right?” He said the name as if Stan were some movie star, instead of some super-powered nobody.

“Age twenty-two, five foot four, brownish-redish hair, green eyes, buncha fuckin’ freckles. Pretty bad limp in your right leg, and you’ve got this cute little magic cane that you use to walk and make your powers just… so much more powerful.”

His eyes practically sparkled as he knelt down in front of Stan. “Telekinesis, or something of that sort. Y'know, I saw you in full action before I nabbed you. Really impressive. The swirly magician cape really adds to the magic of it, I think.”

Stan tried to kick him in his stupid smug face, but the man was sadly just out of kicking range. He smiled a shit-eating grin and stood up to slowly meander around Stan.

“But I wouldn’t know about all that, especially the part about keeping that cane the hell away from you because could lay me on my ass if you had it. Because I don’t know who I’m dealing with, right?”

Stan's face flushed. “You can’t just take–!”

“You’ve also got some pretty shady history, yeah? I mean, did you know you don’t even legally exist? Like, not that you've been declared dead or something, I’ve seen that before, I mean you don't exist at all, in any database. It's like you've been erased. You don't exist. That, of course, got my attention, so I did some digging, loads of recon and llave, you've got some of the most insane powers I’ve ever seen, just throwing shit around and pushing people around like ragdolls. I’ve been in this business for quite some time, and it wouldn’t be a stretch to say you’re probably one of the most powerful I’ve seen. It's really a shame that you need that cane to do anything with them, and even more so that your leg doesn’t work right–”

“Okay, OKAY, I get it, you know who I am! Stop talking about the cane, or– give it back, I need it!”

“Preeetty sure I implied you’re not getting that thing back.”

Stan jolted in his restraints, and immediately regretted it when he was sure he felt new bruises forming on his wrists. “I need it! Give it back.”

The man paused behind him. Long enough that Stan almost called out to him to demand what the hell he was doing. Then he sat on top of the back of Stan's chair, forcing Stan to either take his full weight on his upper back or lean forward and strain against the already too-tight rope. Stan quickly chose the latter with a strangled grunt.

“I do what I want, chiquito,” the man said, deceptively calm. Friendly, even. “You'd do best to learn that quickly.”

Stan bucked back against the weight and let out a frustrated groan when the whole man on top of him didn't budge. The ropes dug painfully into his stomach.

“Get. Off of me.” He seethed.

“What's the magic word?”

“Fuck you.”

His captor leaned back onto him a little bit more, and the rough tendrils of the twine bit into his wrists like sandpaper. His shoulders tugged back, stuck behind the chair and protesting the weight folding him forward by tugging him rebelliously back, caging in his ribcage, forcing the air out of his lungs. He let out a pained wheeze before he could stop himself.

“Still not quite right.”

Stan squirmed in his seat, trying to shove up and get the captor off of his back, but it was proving increasingly hard to try and shove such a big guy off with only the use of one knee to push back, his protesting noodle arms, and the increasing desperation banging against his skull.

“Okay, okay, fine!” he squeaked breathlessly, hoping he sounded like he was just conceding instead of near panicking. “Get off of me, please! Please!”

The man stood back up and Stan slammed back up against the back of his chair, breathing deep and fast, only now feeling the bone-deep soreness and probable ring of bruises around his aching wrists. He couldn’t even feel his hands, the bonds were so tight. How long had he been tied up? How long had he been here?

He felt a hand ruffle his hair. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Stan wanted to scream. “Yes. It was hard.”

The voice snorted. “That's what she said.”

Stan could have sworn he saw red. He closed his eyes and took a deep, calming breath to turn down the boiling rage and rising panic in his stomach. It did absolutely nothing. He pulled on the ropes yet again, more out of desperation than any actual notion that he might be able to tug loose, and another jolt of pain branched up along his forearms.

Tears threatened his eyes again. He was at the complete mercy of a man who made ‘that’s what she said’ jokes.

He did his best to shove down the emotions and tried to focus on the positives. This guy obviously didn’t care about experimenting on him or trying to steal his powers, or torturing him until he was just a husk of himself, or trying to mold him into a living weapon who just lived to do as he was told without question or hesitation. Hopefully…

There was also still that nagging feeling that Stan knew this guy from somewhere, a small piece of vital information buried deep in his brain screaming to get out, shoved down under years of trauma and intentional burying of memories until it couldn’t find its way to the front of Stan’s mind if it had a map, a compass, and the sun to guide its way.

He clenched his fists. Why was his brain being so stupid?! He was smarter than this!

“Who are you…” Stan grunted under his breath, not even fully meaning for it to be verbal, but the pent-up emotion was starting to bubble over.

“Hm?”

“Who!” He shouted, surprising both himself and his captor. “Who are you?! Why are you doing this, why am I here, how am I here, why did you kidnap me?”

The man narrowed his eyes at Stan, and his heart may as well have stopped. He cringed in anticipation of some sort of punishment for yelling. He knew the man’s type. Power-hungry. Easily pissed off. Eager to make someone suffer, especially when they’re given a reason to, which Stan just did. Why couldn't he just keep his mouth shut?

Instead of doing any of that, the kidnapper just picked up his chair and slid it closer so the two of them could talk face-to-face.

“Alright, you're right, I should probably explain,” he started with a sigh. Despite the sudden bewildering tone shift, Stan couldn't help but tentatively lean into the promise of answers. He hadn't expected any sort of positive response from his outburst.

“Can’t tell you much, but I’ll give you a few free questions, yeah?" The man started. "The deal is, I’m basically gonna be your babysitter. I'm really just supposed to keep you here for the time being.”

“You're... my–… my babysitter?” Stan sputtered.

“Basically.”

Stan waited for an elaboration, but the man seemed perfectly content with his answer. But he did say Stan could ask questions, right?

“Okay, so you’re…” he started tentatively. This was a delicate game. “You’re holding me for someone else? Or you’re gonna let me go in a little while?”

“Can’t say.”

Stan scrunched his eyebrows. “Why not?”

“You’ll learn soon enough.”

Ominous.

He sighed, searching his brain for a different line of questioning.

“Then why are you holding me here?” he ventured.

“Can’t say.”

Stan groaned. Was this how it was gonna be? “Why not? Are you like a villain or something? Got some big plans to use me to destroy the world or some crap?”

“If you wanna describe me as a villain, sure. I’m just a mercenary. A bounty hunter, if you like.”

Okay, that felt like important information, but all it did was make Stan want to kick himself for not realizing sooner. Obviously the guy was a mercenary, just look at him. He felt some puzzle pieces click together within his brain. Mercenaries do other people’s dirty work.

“What’re you gonna do to me here?”

“Depends entirely on you.”

“What does that mean?”

“Can’t say.”

He must be messing with him on purpose, this was egregious.

“Who are you working for?”

“Can’t say.”

Stan was getting tired of this. “Can’t, or won’t?”

“Won’t.”

“Why are you even letting me ask you questions if you’re not gonna answer them?”

He shrugged. “It’s a helpful pacifier.”

“Come again?”

He shrugged again.

“Okay, okay, fine,” Stan conceded. “Can you at least tell me who you are? I don’t even know your name.” and I feel like I’ve seen you before.

The man chuckled. “Bud, I think you can use your smart-brain to know what I’m going to say at this point.”

Stan took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Won’t say?”

“What can I say? If you knew my name I’d have to kill you,” he said in an almost sing-songy voice.

Stan nearly laughed at the cliché before he realized there was probably some truth behind the joke. It turned into a more strangled cough.

“...uh. What do I call you then?”

“Usually I’ll say ‘DB’ if the target isn’t creative enough to come up with some derogatory nickname on their own.”

“I’m not calling you Deeby, that’s stupid.”

“It’s even stupider when you know what it’s based on.”

“What’s it based on?”

“Can’t say.”

“This is bullshit.”

The man snorted and shot up from his chair fast enough for it to skitter backward. Stan recoiled into himself at the sudden flurry of movement and sound.

“Wonderful, I hope you found your little impromptu interrogation session enlightening.” the mercenary smiled. “Now back to business.”

He fiddled around in one of his belt pockets, then tsked when he apparently couldn’t find what he was looking for and switched to another pocket instead. Stan felt a horrible churning feeling start to stir in his gut. He didn’t like how the man had just suddenly sprung to life, how giddy he seemed to be for whatever he was searching for.

His heart sunk into his shoes when he finally saw what the mercenary held up for him to see. “So, runt,” he drawled, fiddling with an egregiously large pocket knife and locking it open with a deafening click. The blade glistened in the clinical lighting. “How do you feel about knives?”

#whump #hero whump #whump writing #whumper #whumpee #defiant whumpee #kidnapping whump #whump story #heroes and villains #(un)official guide #been waiting so long to finally upload this #very excited for it hehehehe #hope everyone enjoys #also pacing issues? what pacing issues? never heard of 'em

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