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[fallenwhumpee]

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Year of whump tropes, January 8, 2025

• Day 8: Emotions | Going through motions • Masterlist •

• Part 2 • Part 3 • Part 4 • Masterlist •

Warnings: Self-dehumanisation, unconsciousness.

Right Hand settled next to the couch, their head leaning on Leader's arm. They could feel the rapid pulse, drumming against their ear and fingertips. There was nothing more to do rather than waiting.

But patience wasn’t their strong suit.

Right Hand didn't want to sleep. Didn't want to lose the assuring pulse. They feared, illogically, if they closed their eyes, Leader would disappear. Just like anyone in back there who showed them kindness.

Right Hand knew it was paranoia. They were in the middle of nowhere. Alone. No one could harm them. Except, Right Hand feared the harm was already done. Leader's struggling and quick breaths could stop any moment. Because no matter how much Leader tried to prove othervise, they were fragile. A lot fragile than Right Hand, Youngest, and even Medic, who had undergone so few changes. The one person they all looked up to was the weakest one among them. That was the opposite of what the facility taught.

They all should've been decomissioned by the lab before such a mistake was allowed in the first place.

Leader stirred, as if feeling Right Hand's thoughts. Right Hand ran their hand through the older soldier's hair, undoing the knots on short, neat cut. They knew Leader would be horrified at the thought of anyone touching Right Hand or the team, let alone taking them for decommissioning or reconditioning. Leader always protected them.

Leader was the weakest of them.

It was hard to keep that in mind. Leader pulled stunts no one could. Leader protected the team in a way Right Hand never could. And Leader basically raised them all, when they had no handbook that told them what to do. For Right Hand, no one could be stronger. No one could be better than Leader.

Yet, Leader tried to run away when they crumbled. Right Hand knew calling it as an escape was ignorance, but it was the first time ever that Leader left them for any amount of time. It was the first selfish thing they had ever done. It felt like abandonment despite knowing it was not.

Because  Leader wasn’t supposed to falter. They weren’t supposed to lie there, pale and still, like all the others who had never come back. Leader had no right to scare Right Hand like this.

"You can't leave us alone, you know," Right Hand whispered, knowing they wouldn't have the courage to say if Leader was awake. "Not when we need you."

Right Hand didn't allow themselves to tear up. This was going to be alright. Leader always pulled through. Besides, this was just a healing enchanter. It was just supposed to fasten up the progress. Leader assured them it was going to be alright. And Right Hand believed Leader.

They would call it childish. To trust someone less than a person. To trust someone who was made for simple-mindedly accomplishing the given task. But Right Hand believed Leader because that one task Leader always pursued was keeping the team safe and giving the team a normal life.

For a while, Right Hand just sat there, tracing the tattoo marking Leader as military property, faded with time, and disoriented with scars. Leader would scold them for sitting on the floor without anything beneath or just not sleeping for such 'crude' matter. Eventually, Right Hand did fall asleep, even if it didn't feel restful at all. It was a short break. They didn't need sleep much, their body wasn't weak like humans. And they didn’t like sleep, unlike their teammates. So it wasn't a surprise to wake up before sunrise.

Standing up, Right Hand stretched their limbs. The soreness of sleeping on the floor faded soon enough, leaving them only with their emotions.

Right Hand hated it. Hated that no matter how fast they healed, no matter how their body regulated their heartbeat or breaths, they always felt. There was no way to heal their feelings, and it was the biggest design flaw. What were they thinking while designing Right Hand?

Apparently, the conditioning, too, was immune to healing. Right Hand had been a respected soldier for years now, yet they were feeling like they were going to be dragged to a room to be chastised about being emotional and not acting like what they were going to be just because of showing care.

But lack of punishment made Right Hand so prone to feeling, and it was concerning. They couldn’t deal with their feelings. They were going to be completely useless once - because it was inevitable and Right Hand was somewhat rational to know that - they lost someone. They were going to be barely a shell when they lost Leader, since even one week of absence made Right Hand seek comfort and their foolish mind told them to go back to the place they were raised.

They were supposed to be independent now. That’s what Leader had taught them, even though it took a while to break the thoughts the facility had drilled into their skulls. But how could they stand on their own when their foundation was crumbling? What kind of soldier needed someone like this, so desperately, that they couldn’t even imagine a world without them?

Sometimes, it felt like the trainers were right. It was wrong to feel. They had been told this countless times. But here they were, unable to step away from Leader's unmoving body. Irrational. Not making any sense.

Right Hand adjusted the blanket around Leader’s shoulders, their hands lingering for a moment longer than necessary. It was unnerving to see them so still. Too still.

Right Hand turned back, getting the woods stacked under the stairs and feeding the fire. They couldn't do much at that moment, and while their mind understood that, their heart didn’t. It didn’t make any sense. Their chest squeezing didn't make any sense.

Flames blew out, warming their skin. Leader stirred, turning on their side and tucking their exposed arm into blanket. Right Hand silently stood guard.

[teine-mallaichte]

Emotionless

@year-of-whump-tropes day 8.

CW: conditioinging, emotional suppression, loss of identity, isolation, dehumanisation.

Complex 27 Alex YOWT Jan list

The sterile hum of the facility's lights flickered above, the only sound in the otherwise silent room. Asset 84 stood motionless in front of the metal table, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides, the only outward sign of life. His expression remained blank, not a flicker of emotion betraying the turmoil that raged beneath his controlled exterior.

His body, a machine crafted for precision and destruction, stood in stark contrast to the emptiness within. No warmth, no joy, no fear. Only the conditioned mantra repeated endlessly in his mind: I am 84. I am a weapon. I will endure.

He hadn’t been allowed to feel in years. The facility had drilled it into him, hammered it into his bones until the very notion of emotion felt foreign, even wrong. His humanity was buried, suffocated by the cold, unfeeling command of his handlers. He had become a weapon in the truest sense—an instrument of lethal force without purpose beyond their orders.

The echo of the briefing room door opening snapped him from his reverie. The familiar clink of boots approaching from behind didn’t stir any instinct within him, no tightening of his chest, no sense of threat. It was simply another task to complete, another order to follow. Carter’s voice, detached and clinical, filled the room.

“84, your next assignment is prepared. Report immediately to to loading bay,"

There was no hesitation.

No questions.

No rebellion.

“Understood, Colonel,” Alex responded in the same monotone that had long since become his voice. His hands did not tremble, his breath did not hitch. He simply turned, his steps even and measured as he moved toward the door.

The hallway stretched endlessly before him, a series of metal doors, stark white walls, and the faint sound of distant machinery. The facility had become his world, the only one that mattered. He did not remember his past, not truly. The faces of his family, his mother, his siblings—they were ghosts now. Fuzzy. Lost. He was 84 now.

A weapon.

Nothing more.

His boots made no sound against the floor, a ghost moving in the sterile silence. No fear of the mission. No sorrow for the lives he would take. His heart, though it beat, felt like a distant drum, unheard and ignored.

When thetransport vehicle arrived, the weight of his rifle was all he could feel. He checked the ammo, adjusted his gear, and prepared. This was what he was made for.

This was who he was.

A weapon, emotionless and unyielding.