#wru intake

[whumpsoda]

Intake Paperwork: Graham

Masterlist

cw: dehumanization, bbu/bbu adjacent, pet whump, institutionalized slavery, mentions of sedation, kidnapping

——————

SUBJECT: 836520

DATE OF ACQUISITION: 10.30.XXXX

TIME OF ACQUISITION: 8:36 PM

LOCATION ASSIGNED: FACILITY 014, [REDACTED], USA

PREVIOUS ALIAS: Archie Kenneth Laurent, although most commonly known by ‘Kenny’.

AGE: 19

DATE OF BIRTH: 09.17.XXXX

HAIR: Light Brown

EYES: Brown

HEIGHT: 6’3”

WEIGHT: 225 lbs

SEXUALITY: Bisexual

DESIGNATION: Guard

KNOWN SKILLS: Subject attending school for a psychology major. Subject reported common visits to the local gym, most often practicing weight lifting. Subject is known to be antisocial and unknown to most of his peers.

HOBBIES: Subject reported a great interest in cooking, a handwritten cookbook found in his bag along with his other belongings.

KNOWN CONCERNS: Subject has high anxiety and common panic attacks, as seen multiple times during his acquisition, although more than likely due to the circumstances. No other known concerns.

KNOWN IMMEDIATE FAMILY: Danny Laurent, mother, still living. Margot Laurent, mother, still living.

SIBLINGS: Alice Laurent, sister, seven years older and living. Emme Laurent, sister, eleven years younger and living.

METHOD OF ACQUISITION: Involuntary. 

ACQUISITION DETAILS: The subject was apprehended after being approached on the side of the highway, reporting his car having broken down. Subject fearfully refused a drive to the nearest gas station, before he was injected with a sedative and transported to the WRU facility.

CONTRACT SIGNED: 10.30.XXXX  9:47 PM

ASSIGNED HANDLERS: 

           PRIMARY: Levi Brooks, Senior Handler and Processor, Guard Division

           SECONDARY: Connor Whitney, Senior Handler and Processor, Guard Division

SIGNATURE PROVIDED INVOLUNTARILY, SUBJECT SEDATED FOR SIGNING. SUBJECT DISPLAYED NO SIGNS OF INJURY AT TIME OF SIGNING. 

CONTRACT SIGNATURE: Archie Laurent, aka 836520

ESTIMATED COST FOR TRAINING: $150,000 USD

COMPENSATION PAID BY PROSPECTIVE:  $900,000 USD 

ADDED FEES: $50,000 SELF DEFENSE TRAINING, $50,000 COMBAT TRAINING

REQUESTED TRAINING: ALL Positions 1-35, Endurance, Loyalty, Self Defense, Combat,

COMMENTS:

I’m gonna have some fun with this guy, I can already tell. The crying and hysterics’re always fun to work with until they get annoying, but I’ll have him in line before then. He’ll be so easy to break in, I can see him eating out of the palm of my hand in just a mere few hours of training. Even through all the patheticness, I can see why they want him as a guard. WRU’s sure got a knack for seeing the potential in these people, y’know that? 

[ocean-blue-whump]

728501: Intake Paperwork

Template designed by the lovely @ashintheairlikesnow! Thank you so so much for creating this!

Sunny + Star Masterlist

CW: BBU/pet whump

***

DATE OF ACQUISITION: 11.17.XXXX

TIME OF ACQUISITION: [REDACTED]

LOCATION ASSIGNED: FACILITY 011, SACRAMENTO, CA, USA

SUBJECT: 728501

PREVIOUS ALIAS: Marlow Lancaster

AGE: 18

DATE OF BIRTH: 01.03.XXXX

HAIR: Brown

EYES: Green

HEIGHT: 5′7″

WEIGHT: 135 lbs

SEXUALITY: Unknown

DESIGNATION: Guard Dog

KNOWN SKILLS: [REDACTED]

HOBBIES: Personal belongings indicated interest in music and reading.

KNOWN CONCERNS: Subject attempted to attack Handlers upon intake. Other concerns are [REDACTED]

KNOWN IMMEDIATE FAMILY: Unknown

OTHER KNOWN FAILY: Unknown

METHOD OF ACQUISITION: [REDACTED]

ACQUISITION DETAILS: [REDACTED]

ASSIGNED HANDLER: Devin Greco, Senior Handler, Guard Dog Division

CONTRACT SIGNED: [REDACTED]

SIGNATURE [REDACTED]

CONTRACT SIGNATURE: [REDACTED]

PRESENT AT TIME OF SIGNING: [REDACTED]

ESTIMATED COST FOR TRAINING: $350,000 USD

COMPENSATION PAID BY PROSPECTIVE: [REDACTED]

ADDED FEES: [REDACTED]

CURRENT LOCATION: [REDACTED]

REQUESTED TRAINING: [REDACTED]

COMMENTS: [REDACTED]

Note from management: Handler Greco, please refrain from making inappropriate comments on intake paperwork. 

Addendum 02.25.XX - see intake paperwork for 690236 and Incident Report 02.25.XX. This paperwork is no longer valid. 728501 is now under the Romantic Division.

[gottawhump]

Surrender

115

CW/TW: pet whump, BBU/WRU, euthanasia mention, Facility mention

He didn’t mean to.

He didn’t mean to fall asleep in her arms, in their bed, in the master bedroom. He’d been so tired, every muscle sore and aching from the night before, and their bed was so soft. Her hands stroking his brow were so soothing. So comforting.

He didn’t meant to still be there when the front door opened, when the bedroom door banged opened.

They both sit upright, hair disheveled, clothes in disarray, under the owner’s angry gaze. 115 rolls out of the bed, and falls to the floor, prostrating himself at the owner’s feet.

“I’m sorry, sir, so sorry.” He repeats it like a chant.

“Dear, we were just cuddling.” She presses her body against the owner, trying to distract him.

“Whores, both of you.”

“Dear, it will never happen again.”

“You’re right. It won’t.”

He tries to make himself as small as possible in the trunk. He tries not to think about the warehouse, and the fighting Dogs.

He thinks about the Facility, 
about a small room tiled in white, fulled with relentless white light, never dark, never safe. He thinks of the disappointment of his Handlers. Back again? Oh, 115.

He thinks of the Drip, its cold rushing through his veins, taking away his memories, rendering him ready for another refurbishment.

He thinks of loss, and mourns while he can.

“Out.”

He sees tears running down her face when he obeys. It’s not a Facility, or a processing branch that they stopped at. It’s not the warehouse.

“Please, sir,” he tries agin.

“Save it, whore.” The leash snaps on.

They enter the building.

“I’d like to surrender this pet,” the owner says to the receptionist.

Then he knows. Shelter. He’s being surrendered, discarded, not even given the mercy of the Drip.

“Please, dear,” she begs, “somewhere else. Not a kill shelter.”

“Hush,” the owner says, and she falls silent.

He listens to his number and designation, training, all the facts needed for intake.

“Reason for surrender?”

“Recalcitrance. Disobedience.”

His stomach lurches. He’s a bad pet. No one wants him. No one will want him.

The owner asks for a private room, “to say their goodbyes”.

“Last chance. Say whatever you want.”

She kisses him, long and sweet, for the first and the last time, and when it ends hot tears run down his cheeks, too. She whispers, “I love you” in his ear.

“I won’t forget you,” she says aloud.

“That’s enough, darling. Go back to the car. There’s a pet shelter down a road a bit. I’ll get you a cat to keep you company.”

“Yes, dear.” And she obeys.

The owner steps very close to him, and he catches his breath, expecting a kick, a slap.

But it’s worse than that.

“She will forget you,” the owner says. “I’ll make sure of it. I’ll send her back to WRU for a full wipe, and she won’t remember ever knowing you.”

115 is still sobbing when the shelter worker comes to take him to the kennels.

Old Friends taglist: @painful-pooch @justplainwhump @redwingedwhump @maracujatangerine @honeycollectswhump @tragedyinblue @taterswhump

[ilasknives]

THE LONG WAY HOME | One

<- Previous

Hi, hello, it's been. A very long time. Well over a year, I think? I finally have the second part! I'm so sorry it took me so long, life and full time university have been kicking my ass. I haven't done writing in a long time, so it felt stiff and hard to get through, and only half of it is actual whump, but the rest sets up the story. I really missed writing it, though. I hope you enjoy!

CW: BBU/BBU Adjacent, pet whump, pet training, collaring.

1: Nine Hundred and Thirty-Three

After:

"Get on your knees.”

"What? No, please, I don't -"

"Knees."

He drops to the floor to avoid the baton that this man keeps touching the handle of, looking up at him from below with his hands in his lap, fingers twisting into the shitty thin fabric of his shirt. Maybe it will rip. He doesn't want it to. It's the same one he walked in with, and he's getting the feeling that he won't get it back again if it breaks. He digs his fingers in tighter, anyway, unwillingly.

"I need to - please," he tries again. He needs to go home. His voice is hoarse, rough from the night of pleading with the empty room, tucked into a corner, fighting waves of exhaustion with terror, trying and failing to keep his eyes open. He'd scrambled to his feet when the door opened, desperate for someone to talk to, to reason with, to see that he wasn't supposed to be here -

And now he's on the floor again.

He swallows, mouth dry. "This was a mistake."

The handler ignores him, looking over him like he's assessing him for something, then sighs, mostly to himself. "Okay. So, Domestic."

"I'm not meant to be anything-"

"You don’t need to speak unless you’re spoken to."

“Please,” he whispers, but the look the handler shoots him is enough to make him close his mouth. Something flashes, in the back of his mind. A hand through the air, a stinging across the side of his face. He flinches, but the handler hasn’t moved. Every part of him is screaming that he’s done something wrong, that he needs to hide away and wait until it dies down, until it’s safe again - but there isn’t anywhere to hide here. Just white walls and a heavy door. God, he hasn’t felt like this in years. It’s hard to breathe. Like a hand around his throat.

The handler lets a moment pass, and then two, and when he’s been sitting quietly for long enough, he speaks again. “My name is Handler Phillips, I’ll be your primary Handler for the duration of your training. You are WRU Trainee 297933.”

“I’m not.” It’s whispered, terrified, but he can’t just… give up. There has to be someone who will hear him out. There has to be some way to go home. “My name is-”

“You don’t have a name, you have an identification number.” The handler sighs, and crouches down so they’re face to face. “Look. I don’t want to do this the hard way, and I don’t think you do, either. You’re gonna have to work with me.”

“I’m not meant to be here.”

"We're just doing intake today, alright? Do you know what that means?"

"I want to go home." He doesn't want to do intake, he wants to go back to where he lives and curl up in his bed and never take another stupid fucking bet in his life. He's supposed to be walking back through the door and gloating about his victory right about now. Yesterday. The day before? How long has he been here? "Let me go home."

"I can't do that, mate. I have a job to do, and so do you." The Handler stands and unhooks something from his belt. "This is a collar. It will be yours. It's fitted with…"

The Handler's voice fades into the background behind the ringing of his ears and the bile that rises in his throat. A collar. Fuck, no. Fuck that.

"No," he interrupts. "No. No. You're not putting that on me. Let me go. I need to go home.”

Handler Phillips sighs again. “297933,” he says.

“That’s not my name.”

“It’s your WRU identification number. The collar is mandatory; it’s part of your training.”

“No.” The handler’s fingers touch, briefly, the handle of the baton. He draws back into himself, swallowing thickly, eyes on the floor. “Sorry,” he says quickly. The words taste sour. “I’m sorry.”

Another sigh from above him.

“You’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” The handler hesitates, like he isn’t meant to continue. “I know this is scary. Take a breath.”

He draws in a breath that burns the whole way down.

“Think you can sit still enough to let me put this on you?”

“I don’t want to,” he whispers.

It happens anyway. The fight just… leaves him. He sits and trembles on the floor while Phillips slides the thick collar around his throat and clips it into place with gentle hands.

*

Before:

They’re all at Nell’s house.

They’re always all at Nell’s house, because she’s the only one of them with dogs, and with a couch, and with more than one shitty, battered Wii controller like Benny has. Nell only has two, but that’s double Benny’s, and the rest of them have none, so Nell’s place is the place to be.

They’re playing Mario Kart while they wait for Benny. Rhys is sandwiched between Luca and the arm of the couch, and one of the dogs has its head resting on his foot, and he can’t even move, because it’s Luca, and he’s got his legs slung over Rhys’s lap and his head pillowed on his shoulder.

Luca jerks his arm, swerves, and runs his Yoshi off the side of the track right as Matteo wins the race. Rhys jabs him in the side. “My go.”

“What – that doesn’t count!”

“In what world does that not count?”  Rhys already knows he’s going to lose the argument, but he entertains it anyway. He rarely actually plays Mario with the group, even though they say they’ll swap controllers after every race. Matteo’s already clicked his controller into the wheel attachment and handed it to Owen. Rhys usually hands off his turn to Luca and watches as he comes dead last every single time.

Luca’s opening his mouth to start the usual ‘I’m going to get it next time’ spiel when Benny waltzes in through the front door with his arms full of Nell’s mail.

Rhys raises an eyebrow at him. “You know that’s illegal, right?”

Benny, mouth full of – something, what the fuck is he eating this time? – says, “Huh?”

“Opening someone else’s mail.”

Benny rolls his eyes and dumps the pile of envelopes – bar one – on Luca and Rhy’s laps. “Helenaaaa.”

Nell’s voice comes back from the kitchen, instantly dry, wary. “What do you want from me?”

“I have something for you.”

“I swear, if you’ve been going through my mail again - ”

Benny darts off, cackling like an idiot, and Nell – also like an idiot – chases after him. Rhys shoves the pile of mail off his lap, and it clatters to the floor, all over the dog.

“… Sorry, Benedict.”

“You’re so mean to her,” Owen says from the other side of the couch. “Come here, baby.”

Benedict heaves all god-knows-how-much of her entire great dane self off the floor and meanders over to Owen. He’s already got Chef curled up with his head shoved under his rollator, and Benedict slumps at his feet and goes back to sleep.

“Thief,” Rhys says. “You’re a dog thief.”

“You dropped mail on her head!”

“Weird mail,” Luca muttered, leaning down to snatch an envelope off the floor. “The hell is this?”

It’s a thick white envelope, decorated in gold trim, a wax seal on the back – and it’s snatched from Luca’s hand as soon as Benny swans his way back into the room.

“Whatcha got there, Luca?”

Luca snorts. “Ask Nell, it’s hers.”

Benny does not ask Nell. He never does, but Nell hates opening her own mail, so she shoots Rhys an exasperated look and slumps down on the couch with Matteo.

“We seem to have abandoned Mario,” Matteo muses as Benny tears open the envelope. He doesn’t even try to remove the seal. Absolute animal.

“Dear resident, we hope this letter finds you well,” Benny reads, pacing in front of them like some grandiose loser. Rhys considers tripping him. “We have recently started a movement to bring clinics to smaller cities, and we’re searching for partici- oh my god, this is that – Pet shit, right?”

Nell makes a face. “Yeah, they’re building some new complex for it, or something, right? I read the first one, some initiative to ‘bring business and economy flow into rural areas’ or whatever.”

“We’re not even rural,” says Matteo.

“I know. God, I thought I unsubscribed from their mailing list. Just tear it up, Benny.”

But Benny’s eyes have gone wide. “Holy shit, have you seen how much money they offer you?”

Rhys snatches it from Benny’s grip. Holy shit was right. The number is in the high ten thousands – more money than any of them have seen in one place in their lives.

“I want it,” says Benny. It’s always Benny who starts this shit. Rhys can practically feel his brain turning.

Luca laughs. “You want to be someone’s house pet, Benny?”

A grin, a shrug. Benny’s never been the type to admit that he’s wrong. “Why not? Cozy up on the couch, no job, no bills.”

“Dumbasses,” says Nell, taking the envelope off Rhys and ripping it in half.

“You can’t tell me you don’t want that kind of money, Nell.”

“What am I gonna do with the money if I’m signing up to their program, Benjamin?”

There’s a lull. It should be the end of it. It should. But Benny is Benny is Benny, and Benny doesn’t know when to stop.

“... I reckon I could get the money, anyway.”

“You’re a coward,” Rhys says, because he’s just as bad as Benny, “and a liar.”

Luca jabs him in the side.

Benny’s eyes narrow, and he squares his shoulders like he always does when he thinks that he’s been challenged.

“Wanna bet?”

Taglist (please ask to be added or removed!): @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @whumpinthepot @whumpcereal @whumpsday @whumpworld @littlespacecastle @anonintrovert @honey-is-mesi @warm-my-whumpee-heart @whumping-seven-days-a-week @alexmundaythrufriday

[ashintheairlikesnow]

I might have missed this because I’m blind, but what happened to Hank? It seems like it was horrible enough to make Jameson try to forget him through WRU (if I’m correct).

don’t blame him for making such a rash decision, even though I know he was put through hell. I would be a wreck if my siblings or someone close to me suffered a horrible fate, too.

You can get a look at the backstory here in Jameson's intake paperwork, but in short:

Jameson - then Jonathan - had a fight with his older brother while they were out at a bar. It was a stupid small sibling fight, the kind you have a hundred thousand times and nothing comes of it but some sulking. Hank stalked off to walk home alone, while Jonathan didn't go with him.

Hank was never seen alive again.

He was murdered that night, and his body was found significantly later.

Jonathan blamed himself, as he was the one to instigate the fight and he let his brother go off by himself. He went to WRU to have it all taken away because he wasn't able to grieve well, and spent all his time either crying or trying to get high enough to feel better.

As a side note, the serial killer who found Hank alone was Antoni's brother, who had started having to kill alone after Antoni vanished. Which is why Hank's body was found relatively quickly - Mishka wasn't as good as hiding evidence as Artyom was. Antoni and Jameson have no idea their lives are connected that way.

[sapphicwhumpblog]

Peach and Ice Cream Masterlist

Ivy would do anything for Tess Silver, her ambitious, domineering boss. So even though WRU horrifies her, she looks the other way when she realizes her boss has a Romantic pet, Peaches. But as she and Peaches grow closer, the nagging voice in the back of her head grows harder to ignore. (Piccrews)

Peaches at WRU

Assisted Walk-in

Intake Papers

This isn’t Right

Ivy meets Peaches

A Special Treat

More Coffee

Before the Gala

[peachy-panic]

Not My Father’s Son

Shh it’s a surprise. Roughly 15 years after the beginning of Do No Harm. 

WARNINGS: BBU/BBU-Adjacent, collar mention, fear of medicine, scar mention, bad family relationship

The kid perched on the twin bed can’t be much older than him, if not several years his junior. At his own twenty-one years, that would put this rescue right at the border of legal age for entry into the system. But after three years immersed in active rebellion work, he is no longer surprised by the ease with which WRU ignores their own rules.

He crouches into their line of sight, keeping a solid 3-foot distance. Their sharp, green eyes track his every move; wary, in direct contradiction to their body language. It’s still eerie to witness, no matter how many times he’s seen it in action—the way the ‘training’ embeds itself so deeply in each person’s psyche, so much so that they are able to convey a false openness, a mockery of calm, even in their most desperate moments of terror.

And this rescue is terrified.

“Hi,” he says, keeping his voice low and even. “I’m the shelter coordinator here. You can call me KT.”

Rule number one is no full names at intake. It’s not a pleasant thought, and certainly not one anyone in this work likes to think about, but the new rescues don’t always stick around. Sometimes they’re taken back by force, sometimes they are pulled back in by the demons those people planted in their heads. But once they’re back in WRU’s clutches, delicate information has a tendency to spill out. People have a tendency to get hurt.

The volunteers—the people who help run these shelters and perform under-the-table medical care and go on emergency extraction missions—know what kind of risks they’re signing up for when they dedicate their lives to the cause. But he has seen too much loss in his life at this point not to enforce every precaution.

“I heard you were having some trouble with the medicine,” he begins. But no matter how softly he makes the statement, their eyes lock up with renewed terror.

They dart their gaze to the small table beside the bed. On it is a plate, mostly empty save for a couple empty sandwich wrappers and crumbs, and—most notably—a small paper cup with 2 pills still inside.

“It’s okay,” he says calmly, showing his palms. “First thing you need to know is you don’t have to take anything that is given to you here. We are not like them.”

They never believe it the first hundred times, but it’s always worth stating.

“Second thing,” he continues, “Nothing we give you here will harm you. And I’ll prove it.”

He pulls a small bottle from his pocket and shakes 4 pills into his palm, then stretches out his hand. “Pick two,” he says. “Any two.”

Their eyes dart between the offering and his face, searching for any sign of a trap

“Go ahead. It’s okay.”

He patiently waits them out, as long as it takes, but they finally reach out and pluck two of the pills from his palm, careful not to let their fingers touch skin.

“Cool.” He nods then lifts his hand in a half-hearted cheers gesture. “Bottoms up.” He throws his head back and swallows the pills dry.

They are staring at him when he opens his eyes, and he offers a small smile.

“See? That would be one hell of a game of roulette, and I’m not that brave. Promise.”

It takes a few more seconds of hesitant thought, and he is prepared for the likely possibility that it won’t happen today. That’s okay—he’ll try again tomorrow. But then, without a word, they bring their hand to their mouth and pop the remaining two in. Tempering his own joy to the smallest smile of encouragement, he picks up their water cup and hands it over.

As they tilt their head back to swallow, his eyes dip unwittingly to the band of discolored skin around their neck; a tan line from the collar that would have been severed and destroyed before they came anywhere near the boundary of the shelter. Without having to look, he knows there will be another mark of newfound freedom in the form of a freshly stitched line just behind their ear.

For a moment, he is overtaken by a memory, seared in technicolor behind his eyelids: a piggyback ride in his childhood playroom. His forehead pressed against a soft bed of blond curls. His own little fingers coming up to trace a line of pink, raised skin he had never noticed before. One he could only see from that angle. “Sev, you have a cut.”

He blinks himself back to the present. The rescue is staring down at him with eyes that are eager to trust through layers of wariness.

“Thank you,” Kade whispers sincerely. “You did great.”

Two knocks behind him startle them both. He turns over his shoulder to see Jordan, the nurse practitioner on night shift, in the doorway.

“Torley,” he says. “Need to steal you for a minute.”

Kade sends a meaningful glance in the direction of the frightened rescue. “Is it urgent?”

Jordan’s deep brown eyes hold his for an extra moment. Kade has known him long enough, both professionally and personally, to read the answer there.

“Okay,” he breathes, turning back to the rescue. “I’m sorry. I’ve got to step out, but I am around if you need me, okay? Ask anyone to page me and I’ll head this way. Yeah?”

Hesitantly, the rescue nods. It will have to be enough for now.

The door has barely closed behind him when Jordan curls a soft hand around his elbow.

“Jesus, Kadence, you can’t do the pill trick every time. At this rate, your liver is going to fail by age 30.”

“Maybe I had a headache,” he counters. “Or maybe I’m making up for the rebellious teenage years I skipped out on.”

“You mean you’re not still in them?”

Kade smiles, leaning a little bit into his warm touch.

When they reach the end of the hallway, something in Jordan’s demeanor changes. The teasing smile slips from his face as he scrubs a palm over his mouth. He pulls Kade to the side, turning to face him and lowering his voice so that only the two of them can hear.

“What’s wrong?” Kade asks before he can explain. “Is it another emergency rescue? Two in one night?”

“No, it’s…”

“Jordan?”

He meets his eyes again, and by now Kade is well and truly nervous. “It’s your brother.” He drops the bomb, watching it land over Kade’s expression. “He called for you.”

Kade blinks, trying to wrap his head around those words in that order. He hasn’t spoken to Stephen in almost a year. Jordan knows that, along with most of the reasons why.

“Tell him to fuck off,” he says, though his voice is a little pinched.

“Kade—”

“No.” He shakes his head, starting to walk away.  “I… I have work to do, I don’t have time for… And he should know better, after that fucking disaster last Christmas—”

“Kade.” Jordan pulls him back, forcing him to pay attention. “He said it’s about your father.”

-

@whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing @whumptywhumpdump @nicolepascaline @anotherbluntpencil @hold-him-down @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @batfacedliar-yetagain @thecyrulik @pumpkin-spice-whump @finder-of-rings @melancholy-in-the-morning @insaneinthepaingame @skyhawkwolf @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @dont-touch-my-soup @whump-world @inpainandsuffering @cicatrix-energy @quietly-by-myself @whumpsday @extemporary-whump @the-whumpers-grimm @thebirdsofgay @firewheeesky @whumperfully @hold-back-on-the-comfort @termsnconditions-apply @cyborg0109 @whumplr-reader @pinkraindropsfell

[bbu-on-the-side]

BBU 'standard' scenes and tropes

In my connect-the-community craze, I have another idea - for new writers and all readers:

A little overview on the most classic tropes and iconic moments of BBU, with the opportunity for you to link your own takes at it, as a little navigation.

The list follows here (readmore for more); I take your suggestions for what to add, and I'll make a separate post for every item that you can reblog with links to your own story featuring that.

I'll start with part I and will add to it later, also taking suggestions on what to add!

Part I: Beginning

Recruitment / Sign-Up (voluntary)

Abduction / Sign-Up (involuntary)

Intake Papers

The Drip

Takes on training / facility whump

Shipping out

-

Part II: Owner / Whumper

Unboxing

Naming the pet

Setting up rules

Punishment

Showing Off the Boxie

tbc

-

Part III: Runaway

tbc

-

Part IV: Safehouse / Caretaker

Choosing a name

First Bath

First Meal

Scar Reveal

Boxie asking to be used

Boxie breaking caretaker's property

Nightmares

tbc

-

Part V: Recapture/ Refurb/ Back at WRU

tbc

[highwaywhump]

Febuwhump day 2

soo... probably (definitely) not going to finish this event on time (if at all). my workload suddenly doubled this semester but here's something at least. for febuwhump day 2 i have tried to get to know my nameless guard dog. here's his origin story, starting about 20 years prior to joey's story

CW/TW: captivity, collars/chains, forced drugging, controlled food intake, pet whump/bbu in general

--

“He’s not breaking.” 

“He will.” 

“60 says he won’t.” 

“90 says he will.” 

“Shut up, both of you.” 

The two junior handlers snap their mouths shut, turning away from the monitor and towards senior handler Kerry. He’s leaning back in his office chair, unbothered, flipping through a quarterly report on customer success rates. His numbers are good, as usual. In fact, there’s an upwards trend. If it continues like this over the summer, there will undoubtedly be another raise beginning to rear its head from the deep, deep waters of this facility. 

Kerry glances at the monitor. Nothing’s changed since he glanced at it last, 20 minutes ago. Nearly nothing’s changed since the feed started rolling, six days ago. He returns to his paperwork again, after sparing a pointed look at his two supposed protegees. They both hurriedly look down at their own paperwork, studying training manuals, only sneaking glances at the monitor when they don’t think Kerry’s looking. But he sees them every time. He absentmindedly clicks his pen and longingly recalls the days when corporal punishment in the workplace - in this workplace, at least - was still allowed. 

They sit for another hour or so before Kerry announces that they’ll break for lunch with a grunt, and the junior handlers scurry off to the cafeteria while he unpacks his own meticulously made sandwich. The little domestic taking up space in his laundry room sure knows her stuff, he thinks as he angles the monitor a little, finally allowing himself a closer look now that the twin idiots are gone. 

The idea of pets taking on the role as personal security isn’t new, at least not in practice. Rich assholes who think the world revolves around them have always wanted dedicated security. The Guard Dog type, however, is quite new. The specimen on the monitor is only the third generation, and a young generation at that. He was brought in only two weeks ago, a mean fucker just dishonorably discharged, with a glint in his eye and blood on his knuckles. 

Well. A tether slightly too high up on the wall and a high-powered cold water hose took care of at least one of those problems. As for his unpleasant disposition … Kerry was doing something about that right now. Had been, for the last six days. And the project was just beginning to bear the flowers which eventually would become fruits. 

The previous two generations had been too volatile, too easy to make lash out, and not only at potential threats. WRU could only pay out so much hush money before the media had started to notice. The third generation had to be perfect, and Kerry was one of a small group of handlers who had been served the task. A delicate mission to snuff out every little spark and flame inside the beasts and then create new, tailor-made gas flames in their wake, perfectly controllable and able to be extinguished by the flick of a verbal switch. A killer robot of flesh and blood. 

The monitor showed 603-014 sitting against the wall, arms around his bowed head, very slightly shifting his weight back and forth. Kerry almost thought he could see a crescent shape in the floor surrounding him, as if his pacing (of which there was less and less, these days) had created a track in the floor. The nine feet of chain extending from his collar to a ring in the wall contained him like a mean junkyard dog at the end of a rope. 

He hadn’t been outside the crescent in a week, much less outside his cell. 

In the same period, he hadn’t seen a single other human. Nothing but the same four white walls and his own tethered body. After two days of screaming and crying and cursing and begging he’d lost his voice, and it was still only a hoarse and gravelly whimpering that would come through the speakers if Kerry decided to turn on the sound. 

He glanced at his watch. It was soon time for 014’s daily prescribed five hour nap and his allotted 1300 calories - served in a dog bowl, of course. The two goons could do it, he figured, as he considered his own reuben sandwich, which seemed too good to leave right now. As if summoned by his thoughts, the two of them shuffled into his office, each holding a steaming hot styrofoam container. 

“Great timing,” Kerry announced, not even allowing them time to set their food down. “Time for some practical training. 014 needs his daily rest and nourishment.” 

“Handler Kerry-!”

“I trust you remember where the respiratory gear is,” he broke them off merrily as he reached for the control board mounted on his desk, which controlled every environmental condition in every cell he was responsible for. As they begrudgingly set their food down and removed themselves from his office, he found the right switch and pushed it down. The big lug would be sleeping blissfully in a few minutes, and Kerry would get to watch his mentees undoubtedly fuck up even the simple task of correctly fitting a gas mask on themselves before entering a room filled with anesthetic gas. 

It would be lunch and a show.

--

@simplygrimly @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @briars7 @hackles-up @doveotions @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @kixngiggles @firewheeesky @maracujatangerine @nicolepascaline @whumpthisway @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whumping-snail @pumpkin-spice-whump @pigeonwhumps @whumplr-reader @considerablecolors @dustypinetree @snakebites-and-ink

[justplainwhump]

Walk-In

Creating a timeline raised some questions; here's an answer. Backstory on Blanca. This is a heavy one, please heed the warnings. It's not necessary to read to keep up with the plot.

Blanca signs up with WRU.

[Pet Safety]

Content/Warning: BBU; minor whumpee (she is 17; there is no whump in this piece itself though); human trafficking; mention of teenage pregnancy; implied discussion of abortion; implied parental grief. Everything discussed from the outside by horrible people. This is a heavy one, even though everything is only implied. Please be safe.

"So, Miles. Tell me. What do we have here?" Raquelle peeked through the blinds of her office in the back of the WRU recruitment centre.

A young woman, probably still a teenager, sat on the edge of her chair, swaying forth and back like a seedling in the wind. She was short, almost petite, but well shaped. Tanned skin, fascinatingly light eyes, brown hair in a messy ponytail. And soft lips that would make any man break a sweat just looking at them.

She'd bring in a fortune.

"Why are you even here talking to me, Miles? Seal the deal. Girl is perfect Romantic material. Sweet face, pretty lips, big tits, barely legal? Get that signature, right now."

Miles bit their lip. "She's, um. That's the point. She's not."

"Not what?"

"Barely legal."

Raquelle spun around with raised eyebrows. "Oh?"

"17." They held up a dark red passport. "Foreigner, too. Spanish exchange student. Unwanted pregnancy. Doesn't dare get home like this. Doesn't dare do anything about it, either."

"That desperate, huh?" Raquelle clicked her tongue and looked through the blinds again. The girl was beautiful. Provisions alone would probably pay her that five star vacation on the Seychelles she'd clicked away just yesterday.

"Very desperate," Miles affirmed, catching her smirk. "We'd practically be saving her."

"Well then. We need to bend one rule, we can bend three as well. I'll take care of the identity, and schedule an appointment at the clinic. You do protocol C."

Miles grinned, as they picked up one of the glossy leaflets from her desk. "Gotcha, boss. The right thing to do, huh." They left, a spring to their steps, while Raquelle pulled out her phone to call one of the more discreet contacts in her book.

By the time Miles brought the new trainee in through the back door an hour later, everything was prepared for her intake.

"I, uh. I want to do this, become a pet. Just... Please, I just don't want to be a Romantic," she said, with the cutest Spanish accent.

"Of course, dear." Raquelle smiled warmly. "You're safe with WRU."

The girl looked up at her from huge gray eyes, tears shining in her dark eyelashes, and brought up a shaky smile.

Raquelle almost had to hold her breath.

Yes.

400168 would be fantastic.

--

The video clearly showed the leaflet and passport in the girl's hands, her looking up at Miles, half confused, as they pointed at the leaflet with an understanding smile and accompanied her to the door. The video also very clearly showed her leave, and Miles watching past her with the most caring sigh.

"This is standard protocol," Raquelle explained and pointed at the screen. "She'd shown her ID, and of course we couldn't accept the application of a minor, let alone a foreigner. My colleague gave her our curated list of contact points for teenagers in dire situations. Maybe your daughter showed up at one of those? I'm so sorry. Maria seemed like a formidable, brave young woman. I'm sure she caught herself, and she's somewhere out there." She gave her most reassuring smile. "I do wish you all the best for your search, Mr Romero, Mrs Garcia."

She looked past the grieving parents to the pinboard on her wall.

Ticket to the Seychelles. She'd be leaving on Monday.

She promised herself to drink a toast to Maria Romero Garcia then. Maybe even two.

[a-whump-muffin]

game over (01)

WRU makes a fatal mistake, which Handler Allen Rosburg pays for with his life: they unknowingly make a pet out of a serial killer.

i wanted to write a thing with red flag protags, so here's the result.

music inspiration: growing wings cw: box boy universe, dehumanization, murder

Allen saw the video.

This assignment was a death sentence, but he accepted the paperwork anyways. He didn’t have a choice. It was either play their game or accept defeat, and Allen wasn’t ready to hand his employers the smoking gun just yet.

He ignored the hushed commentary in the breakroom and hallways. He turned his head away from the twisted frowns and arrogant smiles. On a normal day, he would have joined the gossip mill – no one in the facility who couldn’t mingle harmoniously with the odd personalities the job attracted lasted very long.

However, Allen had been the gossip mill’s most recent chew toy for his catastrophic failure. The displeased client was chomping at the bit to sue the company if his shiny new “toy” wasn’t fixed to his exact specifications. In Allen’s opinion, which was apparently worth less than dirt, the man should have requested a Romantic if those were the services he wanted out of a pet. Now, his head was on the chopping block and his superiors obviously didn’t forget it in all the chaos of the morning.

“So, according to the grapevine, Mark might not pull through,” Paula from Intake told him in an unnecessarily hushed voice. “I wouldn’t want to be the one who’s got to break it to his family if he really does, you know.”

Allen toyed with the idea of ignoring her. He was already a pariah among the other Platonic handlers. Everyone was keeping their distance, mainly out of self-preservation, and Allen hadn’t bothered to rock the boat. It wasn’t personal. They didn’t want to end up on the next executive’s naughty list.

“How bad was it, really?” Allen asked, briefly meeting Paula’s eyes. Her false and clinical friendliness faltered slightly.

“Bad,” she said. Allen swallowed around a knot in his throat. Paula had been working here for eight years, so a single word from her spoke volumes. She might have loved gossip and chatting over lunch, but she never minced words when it came to work. “He did some major damage in transport, too. No one could get close enough to stick him with a sedative, so they came in hot. I barely saw him, actually. I heard they want to get him on the Drip immediately and worry about the intake afterwards.”

The involuntary acquisitions, or ‘assisted walk-ins’ officially, were actually much rarer occurrences than those pet liberation fanatics lead the public to believe. They weren’t usually worth the effort, resources, or risk unless a client had a specific preference that couldn’t be matched through normal means.

There were plenty of fully willing and desperate volunteers, after all. WRU didn’t accept any and all applicants off the streets. There was even an official waiting list.

This new trainee must have been acquired for a specific client, which meant this was another high ticket assignment. Allen had more or less felt like the living dead for the past few weeks, and this recent development filled him with dread.

Mark Simmons was supposed to be the new trainee’s handler, but he was carted away in an ambulance due to massive head trauma earlier in the morning. Allen saw the security footage of the handler dragging the acquisition into a training room, completely skipping over the signing process.

Mark’s fatal mistake was insisting on using his usual training protocol and refusing the help of any other handler. It wasn’t an entirely egotistical decision. In many cases, isolation training was a valid method that worked well on stubborn and aggressive trainees. The desperation to please became a necessity of survival.

However, in this case, isolation became the reason Mark was completely overwhelmed and mutilated on the floor of the training room.

Allen held his breath when he watched the moment it happened.

The trainee was a young man of a fairly tall stature, dark brown hair matted with blood. The bruises and cuts on his face from the struggle to apprehend him were obvious. He seemed, at the time, too exhausted and disoriented to put up another hellish fight. He was locked into handcuffs, deep in the belly of the facility.

Mark was transferring him to the built in restraints in the center of the room when the trainee moved.

In a burst of incredible strength fueled by adrenaline, the young man grabbed hold of the remote control strapped to Mark’s waist. It was a black box no larger than a phone, used to activate the shock collars all trainees wore.

Instead of mistaking the remote for a taser, as some trainees had in the heat of the moment, the young man slammed the device against the side of Mark’s head. Mark managed to deflect the first blow by bringing his arm up, but the man was not deterred. He swiftly struck him again. This time, the strike landed, and Mark fell like a sack of bricks.

However, instead of trying to steal the keys or run for the door, the trainee hit him again. And again.

By the third hit, Mark’s movements were sluggish, probably from the head trauma. The trainee fought like he was possessed. Once, Mark managed to push him away with one flailing hand, which the man surprisingly bit as hard as possible, tearing a chunk of flesh from the meat of his palm. It landed on the floor after he spat it out.

It was terrible, but the longer he watched the bloody scene unfold, the harder it was to look away. The violence was so unhinged, it almost seemed unreal. Mark was barely able to retaliate. The trainee was out for blood.

The camera caught a glimpse of the trainee’s face a few times throughout the assault, and the sight made Allen drop the tablet, numb with terror that sank, cold as ice, down to his bones.

A deranged smile and light brown eyes dripping with malice stared back at him from the screen. For a brief moment, it was as if they made eye contact, as if this beast in human skin was staring at him across time and space.

The young man easily grabbed the baton strapped to Mark’s belt while the handler was writing in pain, trying to scramble to his feet. The trainee didn’t even bother reaching for the keys to unlock the handcuffs on his wrists. He just resumed his assault, each blow heavier than the last, until the alarms began to wail and other handlers burst into the room to subdue him.

It was clear after watching the video just once that the new trainee didn’t attack Mark out of self-defense. He actively enjoyed the violence.

Despite his situation – kidnapped and transported to a white, featureless room to be wiped and trained as a human pet, he still had the mind to take great pleasure in the raw brutality and violence. When the handlers shocked him with a taser and nearly broke his arm trying to secure them behind his back, the young man’s wild, mute grin stared them in the face the whole time.

He never said a word. He never even screamed.

Allen didn’t think he was alone in believing it was impossible to ever make this person a successful pet. A person this unhinged and violent could never truly be made docile and pliant, even if they pumped him full of drugs.

Allen’s breath caught in his throat and he put down his fork, no longer hungry.

This was not the first time this man had killed someone and it would not be the last.

[whumpsoda]

Intake Paperwork: Wesley

Masterlist cw: dehumanization, bbu/bbu adjacent, pet whump, institutionalized slavery, mentions of sedation, implied future noncon, kidnapping

——————

SUBJECT: 369719

DATE OF ACQUISITION: 12.15.XXXX

TIME OF ACQUISITION: 1:44 AM

LOCATION ASSIGNED: FACILITY 014, [REDACTED], USA

PREVIOUS ALIAS: Eugene Gabriel Reyes

AGE: 20

DATE OF BIRTH: 03.28.XXXX

HAIR: Dark Brown

EYES: Brown

HEIGHT: 5’10”

WEIGHT: 145 lbs 

SEXUALITY: Gay

DESIGNATION: Romantic

KNOWN SKILLS: Subject attending school on a sports related scholarship. Subject refused to disclose information on sex life, or any other details.

HOBBIES: Subject refused to report, providing only various expletives as his response.

KNOWN CONCERNS: Subject has shown to be increasingly aggressive as well as violent, taking any measure possible to repeatedly attempt an escape. Subject has shown to be a danger to those around him, recommended and requested to be kept in solitary for the entirety of his training.

KNOWN IMMEDIATE FAMILY: Angela Reyes, mother, and Gabriel Reyes, father. The couple was reported to have been divorced for 16 years. Both are still living.

SIBLINGS: Lewis Reyes, brother, five years older and living.

METHOD OF ACQUISITION: Involuntary. 

ACQUISITION DETAILS: Subject was apprehended after a night out with friends during his walk home. Subject fought back relentlessly before being injected with a sedative, although not before giving an employee a black eye. Subject was reported to have made continuous noise as an attempt at resistance during the transfer to the WRU facility.

CONTRACT SIGNED: 12.15.XXXX 2:58 PM

ASSIGNED HANDLERS: 

           PRIMARY: Amanda Reeves, Senior Handler and Processor, Romantic Division

           SECONDARY: Jermey Martinez, Senior Handler and Processor, Romantic Division

SIGNATURE PROVIDED INVOLUNTARILY, SUBJECT SEDATED FOR SIGNING. SUBJECT DISPLAYED MULTIPLE SIGNS OF INJURY AT TIME OF SIGNING, MOST NOTABLY A BROKEN NOSE.

CONTRACT SIGNATURE: Eugene Reyes, aka 369719

ESTIMATED COST FOR TRAINING: $150,000 USD

COMPENSATION PAID BY PROSPECTIVE:  $800,000 USD 

ADDED FEES: $50,000 AGORAPHOBIA TRAINING FEE

REQUESTED TRAINING: ALL Positions 1-35, Flexibility, Sensitivity, Endurance, Agoraphobia

COMMENTS:

This one’s gonna be a pain in my ass for a while, I’m sure of it. He already is, and we haven’t even begun his training. The drip will just make his fight stronger, his desperation ever present. I’ll get him under control though, as fast as possible. I always do. I can already see him groveling at my feet, quiet and docile with a head stuffed full of cotton. I imagine agoraphobia training being an interesting perk to this trainee, though.

[whumpsday]

BBU Community Days #7: Details

*deep breath*

is WRU an international company, or confined to a single country? how does the legality and popular view of boxies vary between different parts of the world?

for that matter, RELIGION. what do people of various religions think about boxies? would, for example, the catholic church be in support of or vehemently against the practice? could some ultra-wealthy person try to start a cult by buying a bunch of boxies and making them be part of it?

people trying to pull WRU-based scams has to be a thing, given they'll give large sums of money to any recipient designated by people trying to become pets. people thinking they'll sell themselves to WRU and then escape. even handlers and intake staff being in on this.

semi-related to the previous, people trying to sell knockoff pets would also totally exist as a scam, a new form of illegal human trafficking. as opposed to the legal human trafficking.

someone who's resistant to the memory-loss drug and keeps their memory.

trans boxies! how are they handled! is their chosen gender respected, or tossed to the void as soon as their memory's wiped? what if they've had surgeries? will WRU even accept them as applicants that case?

boxie social lives within facilities. we always see boxies interacting with handlers, but what about boxies interacting with each other. bittersweet feelings when one of a pair of best friends is sold, since they're leaving this awful place but they'll never see each other again, the only friend they ever remember having. on the flip side, a boxie who gets bullied by other trainees, whump on top of whump.

@bbu-on-the-side

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Hey! I'm starting my own BBU fic, and was wondering if you still have the documents mentioned in this post that the WRU keeps of their boxies? That's fine if not, I'll just make my own up, but I'd love to use resources already used and accepted by the community, it makes it feel more connected, and I'm a huge fan of your work. Thanks!

On you mean the intake paperwork? I don't have a blank one, but you can see my conception for it here with Jameson's intake paperwork! I hope that helps! I could dig up some others but they all follow this basic structure.

Also, eeeeee, a new Ash appears!

[sapphicwhumpblog]

Intake papers for Jennifer Vale (Peaches)

DATE OF ACQUISITION: 10.25.20XX 

LOCATION ASSIGNED: Facility 044

SUBJECT: 552357

PREVIOUS ALIAS: Vale, Jennifer

AGE: 23

DATE OF BIRTH: 07.11.20XX

HAIR: Brown (Dyed purple)

EYES: Brown

HEIGHT: 5’4"

WEIGHT: 120lbs

SEXUALITY: Bisexual

DESIGNATION: Romantic

KNOWN SKILLS: Two years of experience bartending. Amateur soccer player and swimmer. Undergraduate major in art history. Enjoys painting and drawing.

KNOWN CONCERNS: Subject's parents are estranged—no known communication with them since Subject moved cities in 2019. However, Subject is still in contact with her sister and grandmother, and has a large circle of friends. Social circle should be monitored closely to prevent any missing person claims/social media disinformation.

KNOWN IMMEDIATE FAMILY: Emily Vale (sister), Margaret Vale (mother), John Vale (Father) 

OTHER KNOWN FAMILY:  Jessica Vale (paternal grandmother) 

METHOD OF ACQUISITION: Assisted Walk-In

ASSIGNED HANDLER: Handler Marie Wells, Romantic high-security wing. Handler Rob Jones, Domestic division, secondary. 

SIGNATURE PROVIDED VOLUNTARILY, SUBJECT NOT SEDATED FOR SIGNING. SUBJECT REPORTED EXHAUSTION, HUNGER, AND CONFUSION COMMON TO NEW ACQUISITIONS.

CONTRACT SIGNED: 10.29.20XX, 1:19 am. PRESENT AT TIME OF SIGNING: John Conway, WRU Legal Counsel; Marie Wells, WRU Handler; Director Kayla Lee, head of Facility 044 Acquisitions Coordination.

ESTIMATED COST FOR TRAINING: $200,000; ANTICIPATED PRICE POINT: $305,000 ADDED FEES: TBD AT TIME OF SELECTION BY PROSPECTIVE.

CURRENT LOCATION: Facility 044, Romantic division.

REQUESTED TRAINING: All standard positions. Literacy removal.

Additional Romantic Training: All standard Romantic positions. Additional masochism and pain training. Additional training in flexibility; dancing; hair styling and makeup application requested. Tattoo removal also requested.

Additional Domestic Training: Cooking and drink preparation, with a focus on Italian and Japanese cuisine and specialty cocktails.

COMMENTS:

Director Kayla Lee: Prospect is a close friend of mine, and also a frequent donor to WRU. I would prefer that training goes as swimmingly as possible for that reason. Expect bonuses if it goes well, termination if not.

Handler Wells: She’s a pretty one, I can see how she’d catch someone’s eye. Fought like hell before getting on the Drip, I’m guessing she’ll need a firm hand in training, but that’s my speciality. She’ll be real sweet once I’m done with her.

Handler Jones: Cocktail making should be a cakewalk, I mostly just need to sand off the rough edges. Cooking could take a little more work but overall I think this should be manageable.

[ocean-blue-whump]

690236: Intake Paperwork

Template by @ashintheairlikesnow! 

Sunny and Star Masterlist

CW: BBU/pet whump, references to Romantics and future noncon

***

DATE OF ACQUISITION: 02.20.XXXX

TIME OF ACQUISITION: 3:02 P.M.

LOCATION ASSIGNED: FACILITY 011, SACRAMENTO, CA, USA

SUBJECT: 690236

PREVIOUS ALIAS: Lorenzo Whitlock

AGE: 21

DATE OF BIRTH: 05.11.XXXX

HAIR: Blonde

EYES: Blue

HEIGHT: 5′11″

WEIGHT: 170 lbs

SEXUALITY: Bisexual

DESIGNATION: Romantic

KNOWN SKILLS: Subject has partial college education. Subject referred to a reasonable history of prior sexual experiences.

HOBBIES: Subject discussed interest in painting and drawing.

KNOWN CONCERNS: Subject appears to demonstrate signs of clinical depression. Monitor for escalating behavior. 

KNOWN IMMEDIATE FAMILY: Edward Whitlock, father. Fiorella Whitlock, mother.

OTHER KNOWN FAILY: Subject mentioned cousins, but due to emotional distress, was unable to give details. 

METHOD OF ACQUISITION: Voluntary. Subject had attended WRU information sessions prior to walk-in. 

ACQUISITION DETAILS: Subject called in advance and showed up at the acquisition office. Subject was well dressed, but appeared tired. Subject had dried paint on his hands. 

ASSIGNED HANDLER: James Hanford, Senior Handler, Romantic Division

CONTRACT SIGNED: 02.20.XXXX

SIGNATURE PROVIDED WITH ASSISTANCE. SUBJECT REPORTED FEELING OF “RELIEF” AFTER SIGNING. SUBJECT REPORTED FEELINGS OF TIREDNESS AND HUNGER COMMON TO NEW ACQUISITIONS. SUBJECT REPORTED FEELINGS OF FEAR COMMON TO NEW ACQUISITIONS.

CONTRACT SIGNATURE: Lorenzo Whitlock

PRESENT AT TIME OF SIGNING: Handler James Hanford, Badge #1007. Attorney Sarah Beth Lodge, WRU Legal Counsel.

ESTIMATED COST FOR TRAINING: $300,000 USD

COMPENSATION PAID BY PROSPECTIVE: $600,000 USD

ADDED FEES: $50,000 MASOCHISM, [REDACTED]

CURRENT LOCATION: Training Room 004, post-contract signing

REQUESTED TRAINING: ALL Positions 1-35, Flexibility, Sensitivity, Endurance, [REDACTED]

COMMENTS: He’s pretty. Very pretty. He has this quiet elegance, and his eyes make it look like he’s always begging. He’ll make someone very, very happy. - James Hanford

Addendum 02.25.XX - see Incident Report 02.25.XX and new paperwork on 728501, filed by James Hanford.