#yowt25m1w1d7

[sir-fenris]

Year of Whump Tropes - Day 7

January 2025 - Week 1, Day 7

Maintenance | Not being acknowledged

(Drabbles' masterlist)

Content: medical whump, dehumanization, living weapon whumpee, resigned whumpee, "it" as a pronoun, sensory overwhelm, noncon touching (non sexual), small noncon body modification (nail), noncon drugging, eyes forced open, manhandling, loss of autonomy, restraints, needles, one scale yanking.

Whumpee would never get fully used to the maintenance room. It's too cold, too bright and white, with a too strong antiseptic smell, and his enhanced senses hated it.

His eyes, used to the night, hurt from all the light, and he wished for his blindfold back, for the blissful darkness. But not yet, because the doctors were still testing his eyesight. Whumpee lost count of how many machines and instruments were used just for that already.

No wonder maintenance lasts more than 8 hours. The doctors truly examined everything in their power to assure the living weapons were impeccable for the field.

"Tonometer testing done," a cold, clinical voice calls. Not to him, never to him. He was an object, or an animal, at best, during maintenance.

The tonometer leaves his face, but the head restrictions aren't taken away. Not done with eye tests, then.

Whumpee sees one of the doctors moving to the side, two handling machines, and one writing something down in front of him.

It's inevitable to scan around, being a reconnaissance and scouting weapon, but he barely had time to scan all the new medical tools before a machine is pulled in front of him by a movable table.

Oh, he remembers this one.

Whumpee's eyelids are held open with an eye speculum, and he takes a deep breath before the machine touches his face. Images immediately start appearing, and he doesn't need to do anything, the machine gathers information from his eyes by itself.

He feels an intern gripping his hands without any warning. Soon, he feels them sanding his nails back into a good length, short enough not to get in the way of tasks and long enough to be used as a short-range weapon. The sanding makes a loud noise. Whumpee tries not to move.

"Its nails are strong as ever." The intern says, almost annoyed. Must be a truly young intern to let any emotion slip through their voice.

"That's good. The general said to keep it sharper this time, they'll need it like that for the next mission." One of the doctors responds back.

The images are turning brighter, faster, and forms start shaping in front of him. He's pretty sure his eyes are watering. No one pays him any mind.

"We can get its second blood work while the machine goes, shorten the time." He hears before his arm is being manhandled to the side for the blood test preparing.

Whumpee really wants to blink, but he can't. His senses are overwhelmed, between the sight overload, the sharp hearing taking in even the breathing of the farthest doctor, the sanding too loud and too rough, the blood leaving his arm for each vial being filled...

He can't stop a small whimper. Whumpee shouldn't make noises, he was taught better than that. But it's been hours, and he doesn't even know when it'll end. It's just test after test.

No one even acknowledges his noise. Perhaps that's for the best, he would be punished if they minded it. But it still feels bitter.

The blood test is done, the intern changes for the other hand, and the machine is still in his eye. He can feel the tears pooling.

"Do we need scale extraction this time?" Someone asks, and Whumpee has to stop another whimper.

"It's complete maintenance and examination." Another doctor responds, and that's all the warning he gets before a scale is yanked from the back of his neck, one of the only places he has some scales.

He makes a pained sound. A small, punched out, and choked whimper that goes unnoticed.

The intern stops the sanding, but the machine is still going, bright and piercing his skull with its eletrical waves.

"Prepare the venom extraction. It should be 130mg." Whumpee hates venom extraction, despite it being done every non-mission day, but the trepidation is covered by relief once the machine is finally taken away, and so is the speculum.

He blinks repeatedly, feeling the pooled tears trailing down his cheek fast, but the burning doesn't stop. No one seems to care at all, but at least the blindfold is put back on. All eye tests are done, at last.

An acrylic tool is pushed inside his mouth, keeping it wide open. It's only thanks to the head restrictions that he doesn't move when a needle enters his neck.

Venom extraction would be fine if it weren't for this.

The headache starts almost immediately, and adrenaline surges all over his body, starting from the neck. More tears trail down, reflexive ones, at the same time he feels his venom gland pulsing reflexively.

Some head restrictions are unfastened so he can move to bite down when a glass with a film top. They don't even tell him to, a doctor just grips his nape and squeezes the sides of his jugular to force the reaction.

Venom flows out of his fangs into the round vial, and the hands only leave his neck when protective acrylic casts are pushed onto his fangs, and the head restrictions are fastened back.

After that, no one touches him. The headache is pulsing harder, body trying to react to the threat, but no venom flows out into the acrylic cast. They took it all. It feels terrible and gives him a heavy nausea.

He remains fastened on the chair. With the acrylic piece keeping his mouth open, blindfold on, full body restricted.

Whumpee hears the doctors speaking about the results, and eventually about their own routines. No one comes closer to him, not acknowledging him at all, now that maintenance is done.

It takes over 20 minutes for someone to come to him, but no restrictions are taken away. He hears the first x-ray machine start to move around his chair in a circular motion. Oh. Whumpee had forgotten about that machine.

And the doctors forget about him too. Even after the 5 rounds of scanning are done, no one comes to take him out of the chair for a long time.

Once two guards and a doctor finally unfastened all the restrictions and pulled him out of the chair, Whumpee could barely stay up.

"We'll send the results to you once they're all done," he hears a doctor saying to someone. Probably to his handler, if they're there.

Whumpee knows it's not to him. It's never to him.

-

(Last event-late post, promise :') I'm back on track now)

-

[fallenwhumpee]

Year of Whump Tropes, January 7, 2025

• Day 7: Maintenance | Not being acknowledged • Masterlist •

Warnings: Self dehumanisation, lab settings.

Drill was simple. Stay still. Let the people do their jobs. Whumpee could do that, really. Not being talked to was a blessing at most times. It meant no orders, no tasks.

But today was maintenance day.

That wasn't supposed to change anything. Whumpee was still supposed to sit through without talking. But the last two training exercises almost failed because of sudden pain in its right knee. Something was wrong with it.

"Sir," Whumpee tried, too meek. It didn't use words too much. It always felt quite uncomfortable because no one had to listen it. It didn't have the right to bother people.

It went ignored.

Blood got drawn, eyes checked. Many things connected to its body and then got taken off. It tried talking again a few times. It didn't even get hushed. It got pushed around from rooms to rooms, passing by other weapons and overseers. Machine after machine and tests after tests were exhausting, but at none of those Whumpee was listened.

Until its knee popped and twisted when a doctor tried to fold it more than it could.

Punishment for not reporting faulty parts of it was going to haunt it for days.

[suspensefulpen]

Month 1 - Week 1 - Day 7: Maintenance

TW: Living Weapon, Dehumanization, Bad Caretaker (kind of)

Whumper frowned as he watched Caretaker patched up Whumpee’s damage. He didn’t understand where all of it came from. Surely the training hadn’t been that bad. Caretaker begged to differ. 

They were so insistent on doing something, Whumper stopped attempting to protest at all. Whumpee had been training with the others. Whumper and Caretaker oversaw it, making sure that Whumpee was learning what he should’ve been. Well, that’s what Whumper was doing. That was until Whumpee stopped attempting to fight back and Caretaker said he needed to be pulled out. Whumper waved them off, stating that Whumpee just needed a moment to think of a new strategy. A moment went by and Whumpee still didn’t fight back, instead dropping to his knees. Then Caretaker started their insistent nagging until Whumper finally broke and pulled Whumpee out. 

He wanted to ignore Caretaker but he knows just how annoying they can become when that happens. 

Once they were finally done, they stepped out of the room with Whumper. They crossed their arms and frowned up at him. “I cannot believe you.” He sighed, running his hand over his face as he debated turning his hearing aids off. He almost did until he picked up on something. “–I mean what in your right mind made you think that was a good idea, Whumper? They may be your weapons but at the end of that day, they are still humans. Whether you want to acknowledge that or not.” 

Whumper scowled and turned his head. “Quit spouting nonsense Caretaker.” 

“It’s not nonsense!” They pointed at him. “And you know that!” 

“My weapons just need an early maintenance day, that’s all.” 

“Oh so now you want to listen to me? I’ve been telling you this for weeks! They would all be performing a lot better if you hadn’t pushed them beyond their limits already. And what was that with all of them targeting Whumpee? What was that about?” 

“I told them to do that. He needs to learn.” 

Caretaker frowned. “I do not care what he needs to learn! You need to learn that Whumpee is not as strong as you think he is! Just because he took on two or three people on his own doesn’t mean he can take on every other weapon you have!” 

“Yes he can!” Whumper faced them with his own frown. “He can do whatever I train him to do!” 

“No he cannot! Whumper that boy is still a human whether you want to realize that or not. You need to remember that when you’re training him. You wanna know what I found while I was patching up his wounds?” He didn’t bother to answer, instead taking interest in the white wall to his left. “I found wounds that were weeks old and left untreated. It’s a wonder he was still even going. If he’s like that, I’m sure all of your other weapons are in bad conditions too. You just don’t want to think about that, you want to believe they’re invincible and nothing can strike them down–”

“Fine!” He snapped. “If getting them checked out by all of your medics is going to make you feel better, then do it!” 

“Trust me, I was going to do that anyway. The only thing that’ll make me feel ‘better’ is you admitting you were wrong.” Whumper watched in silence as Caretaker stomped away. 

The next day, Whumper stood at the door of the clinic as his weapons got examined by the medical staff. 

It turns out Caretaker was very right. Every one of his weapons needed to have maintenance done. But of course, he wasn’t ever going to admit that. Especially not to their face as they walked over. 

“You see how much easier this could’ve been had you listened to me?” They raised a brow. 

He only grumbled, ignoring the question altogether. 

[teine-mallaichte]

Maintenance

Day 7 @year-of-whump-tropes

Asset 77 is sent to the med wing for "maintenance". A direct sequel to Treated Like An Object.

CW: dehumanisation, conditioning, living weapon, defiant but broken whumpee, controlling whumper, vulnerability, disordered eating referenced, self neglect, self destrctuion, medical setting.

Complex 27 Ash YOWT Jan list

The med wing was cold. It always was. The bright white walls reflected the harsh fluorescent lights, amplifying their sterile glow to an almost blinding intensity. Ash’s boots squeaked faintly against the polished floor, the sound swallowed by the oppressive silence. The air reeked of antiseptic and faintly metallic undertones, a stench that churned his stomach and clung to his skin.

His shoulders hunched, his head bowed, as he stepped through the doorway. Kerr’s words echoed in his mind, heavy and suffocating: “You’re running out of chances.”

Ash hated the med wing. It wasn’t a place of healing—it was a place of maintenance. Here, he wasn’t a weapon or even Asset 77. He wasn’t Ash. He was nothing more than a malfunctioning object, stripped of purpose, waiting to be patched up and sent back out.

The examination room door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a lone medical asset inside. She glanced up, her hollow smile sharp and unnervingly bright, like sunlight on ice. Her pristine uniform and rigidly neat hair suggested routine, not personality.

“Asset 77!” she chirped, her voice saccharine, almost musical. “You’ve been flagged for maintenance. Please take a seat and remove the top half of your uniform.”

Ash hesitated, his jaw tightening, but his body moved before his mind could object. Obedience was automatic. His fingers worked stiffly at the buttons of his uniform, the fabric crinkling as it slid from his shoulders. He folded it neatly—more from habit than care—and sat down, the cold metal of the chair biting into his skin.

“Good!” the medical asset said, as though he’d passed some invisible test. She rolled a tray of instruments closer, the tools gleaming under the lights, their sterile perfection a mockery of his battered body. “Let’s get started.”

Ash fixed his gaze downward, his hands resting on his thighs. The first scan began with a low hum, the device passing over his torso. The medical asset’s smile didn’t waver as she reviewed the results, though her brow furrowed slightly.

“Oh dear,” she said in the same chipper tone, tapping at the data pad in her hand. “Malnutrition. Dehydration. Evidence of inadequate physical maintenance. Joint degradation is progressing faster than expected. We’ll requisition a brace for field missions—a temporary solution until you’re cycled out.”

Until you’re cycled out.

The phrase hit like a blow, but Ash kept his expression neutral, his hands still on his thighs despite the twitch of his fingers. Showing anything—anger, fear, frustration—would only make it worse.

“Extend your arm, please,” she said, her voice a sing-song command.

Ash obeyed, his muscles stiff as she tugged up his sleeve, revealing the faint seam of synthetic flesh near his elbow. The hiss of the port’s activation filled the air, the synthetic covering retracting to expose gleaming metal beneath.

“Port’s clean,” she noted, more to herself than to him. Her gloved hands moved quickly, attaching a diagnostic device. A faint pulse flared through his implant, the sensation cold and invasive. “No blockages,” she added, as though marking off a checklist. “Good response.”

The sting of supplements entering his bloodstream followed, cold and invasive. Ash swallowed hard as the metallic taste rose in his throat. He forced himself to stay still, silent, his nails biting into his palms as a flicker of anger surged.

The medical asset didn’t notice, or if she did, she didn’t care.

“You’re behind on calibration,” she said, a faint edge of scolding slipping into her tone. “If you’d adhered to protocol, this wouldn’t have deteriorated so quickly.”

Ash’s jaw clenched, his breathing shallow and steady. You don’t even look at me. The thought burned hot and bitter, but he buried it, as always. Anger wouldn’t help. It never did.

She moved to his shoulder blade next, her gloved hands prodding at the implant beneath his skin. He suppressed a flinch as she pressed against the reservoir, the sharp sensation more jarring than painful. The implant was just another piece of him—no, of it—that didn’t belong to him.

“Reservoir levels are low,” she muttered, her cheerful tone dipping into irritation. “Sergeant Kerr should have flagged this earlier.” She loaded a fresh vial into an injector and pressed it against his shoulder. The needle bit into his skin, and the chemical payload burned.

stayed still. Silent. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. Instead, he stared at the far wall, his nails digging into his palms as the emptiness gnawed at him, hollow and unrelenting.

“You’re ready for redeployment,” she announced brightly, setting the injector aside with a crisp click. Her hands moved quickly, typing notes into the data pad. “Kerr will receive the report shortly, and appropriate nutrient packs will be authorized.”

Dismissed. Just like that.

Ash stood automatically, his body moving on instinct as her focus shifted elsewhere. She didn’t even glance at him as she gave her final instructions, her voice as detached as her hollow smile.

“Report to the supply wing for your brace. And adhere to your nutrient protocols this time, Asset 77. Unnecessary inefficiencies won’t be tolerated.”

The words scraped against his chest, but he kept his head down as he left the room. The door slid shut behind him with a quiet hiss, and the chill of the med wing lingered in his bones as he walked down the corridor.

His boots squeaked faintly against the polished floor. The antiseptic stench clung to him, as if marking him as the broken tool he was. He was a weapon.

A tool.

Nothing more.

But beneath the surface, beneath the numbness and the chemicals, something stirred—Hot. Dangerous. Waiting.

[umhingedcapybara]

2025 @year-of-whump-tropes // #007. Maintenance

Rating: Teen and Up | Warnings: force-feeding, dehumanization, it/its pronouns for a person | Series: The Hellhound

“It’s maintenance,” Mistress said, pushing the third spoonful of tasteless outmeal into Its mouth. “We don’t need you fucking passing out in the middle of a mission!”

Violet wanted to throw up, stomach lurching, the girl huffed something like let us fucking rest then! (Both ignoring all the nausea from the last few days, it was easier that way.)

There was a bitter aftertaste, tell-telling of the tonics It had been fed lately. At least Mistress tilted Its head and made It gulp half a glass of water before continuing.

Violet didn’t fight her. This feeding was much less troublesome.