whitehairandblood

[whitehairandblood]

I want him tied up and begging in my office by this afternoon

[whitehairandblood]

On their knees with their hands bound behind their back

Wrenched down by the hair onto their knees

On their knees and whipped

On their knees and pistol whipped

Shirtless/stripped and whipped

[whitehairandblood]

[whitehairandblood]

gay people can never flirt normally its always gotta be some shit like this

[whitehairandblood]

Whumper kneeling down next to whumpee who can't get up from where they're laying-- either due to injury or restraint. Whumper getting in close, condescending, smug, and very freely touching whumpee since they know there's nothing whumpee can do to them.

[whitehairandblood]

First they were attacked from behind, a swarm of attackers lunging at them from the shadows. Their arms wrenched behind their back until their shoulders creaked, the fragile crying out of bones and ligaments before they snap. They’re not expecting the quick punch to the solar plexus or how it steals the breath from their lungs. Before they can gasp for air, blunt punches rain down from every angle. Both cheeks catch different sets of knuckles at the same moment. Something crunches. Their head drops forward - trying to hide, trying to escape - and a fist bangs down on the crown of their head like with all the hesitation of someone banging on the breakfast table. A tight grip fists through their hair, tilting their face up towards the shadows, and the blow that comes leaves blood spilling from their mouth, their teeth, their numbless formless lips. Held tight by restraining arms, their soft underbelly is exposed to the assault of someone aiming over and over for the space below their ribs.

Someone changes tactics, looking for an unmarked spot, and when the punch hits their chest, a sharp ring pops through the skin. Then another, and another, until blood flattens the shirt to their heaving, panicked chest.

With lips swollen and their own iron on their tongue, they barely register the gag until it is far too late. The rough fabric slotted and pulled into place, stretching their jaw around the thick wad until it feels like they’ll suffocate. Tears flee down their cheeks, itchy and mingling at the corners of their stretched maw, slipping behind the gag to clog what little air they have left.

They only have a moment, a short gasp of relief, to revel that the blows have stopped.

The loud rip of tape.

Someone’s hand, wide and warm on their forehead, tilting them back so that another can carefully seal tape over the gag. Fingers digging against a swelling jaw. Cursing when they find moisture. A sleeve wiping their cheeks clean. Fingers again, carefully affixing the tape into place and making sure the corners are pressed down tight.

A bag slides over their head, replacing shadows with terrifying clarity of the senses. The rank smell of their own fear and sweat. The rippling spasms through their abdomen, muscles tensing and untensing as they fight against anticipated blows. The oppressive heat of bodies, so many bodies, crowding them from every side. Surrounded. Arms held captive with warning pressure pushing into the sockets of each shoulder. The hands on the front of their chest keeping them upright. Another set of hands on their hips, holding them in place or keeping them from sliding to the ground.

They jump as hands clasp around their head, palms flattened over their ears. A muffled discussion happens above them, and then the hands are pulled away and in their absence comes a familiar weight made foreign through the distance of the cloth.

Noise canceling headphones.

A switch flicks on and the world shifts into a mute.

The grip holding their arms back relaxes. Pins and needles rush in to greet the tips of their fingers, which wriggle of their volition like fish baited by the hook. Their arms shake with the effort of existing, and no sooner have they sensed freedom than they’re grabbed again, this time by the elbows, nearly lifted off their feet as they’re dragged forward forward, until they exit the alley, until the cold unencumbered wind kisses the new wet spots on their cheeks through the rough cloth bag. Until they’re pushed against something, the hard knock of something unmovable against their legs that sends them sprawling forward. Until their captors with their hard grips step inside, and the ground shakes under them, a vehicle creaking at the weight. Until their captors tug the helpless inside behind them. Until the door that slams shut is a whisper of air and the arrival of instinctive of knowing when the trap has sprung shut.

Until they’re sat, shivering, between two unknown masses who are blood warm with the weight of their violence. The heady promise of anticipation in the air that comes from knowing they will taste it again soon.

Until all they can do is shiver in revulsion at the heat.

Until sitting takes a taxing toll, leaves them shriveled up in pain and leaning against the same brutal bodies for support. Until one of them releases their elbow and, in the cruelest parody of gentleness, wraps their arm over their shoulder instead, encouraging them to rest.

Until all they can do is choke on their own gasping sobs, gagging when the intruder in their mouth won’t even grant them that much. Until they’re quiet; until they’re numb.

Until all they can do is wait.

[whitehairandblood]

Prisoner of war whumpee with a bit more agency

Trying to escape over and over. Each time they get caught, the punishment is worse, until finally they're facing down losing a limb and they're begging, promising to never do it again. Because how are they going to escape with only one leg?

Making friends with the interrogator. Sarcastic joking, "Let's not and say we did, huh?", going quiet when he picks up the torture weapon. Stupid to think that would work.

Planning an escape with the other prisoners. Whumpee is trying to form a team that can actually get out together. Conversations and planning hush when a group of their captors suddenly barge in.

Someone with a lot of intel trying to fake that they're a different person that doesn't know much. Until that same person is also captured and brought in to confront them.

A high-risk prisoner shackled around the wrists, ankles, collared, gagged, walking up to the front of their cell as far as they can come to stare the enemy commander.

[whitehairandblood]

Whumpy thoughts #1

Love this stuff:

- when a whumper kicks a whumpee when they’re already down. It’s just so malicious, you feel it in your gut

- caresses of the face or neck, ESPECIALLY when the whumpee is tied up and expecting violence, so they flinch at the touch and then immediately feel ashamed or humiliated at the whumpee’s ability to elicit that reaction. That’s Good Stuff

- raw wrists from too-right restraints. How the ragged skin makes it all the more painful to strain against ropes or chains. How the marks don’t fade quickly, so even when the whumpee is with the caretaker, they’re constantly reminded that the memory of their captivity is still written on their body... that’s my kinda whump right there

[whitehairandblood]

Director Jonathan Demme feeds Anthony Hopkins a fry through the Lecter mask on the 1991 set of The Silence of the Lambs.

[whitehairandblood]

If you guys have any quotes or prompts, I’d love them and be eternally grateful. Coming up with new ideas is kinda hard

[whitehairandblood]

interested in some demographics, so

[whitehairandblood]

Whumpee kneeling with their arms chained to the walls, exposed and unable to hide as their whumper approaches.

[whitehairandblood]

The Anatomy of Passing Out: When, Why, and How to Write It

Passing out, or syncope, is a loss of consciousness that can play a pivotal role in storytelling, adding drama, suspense, or emotional weight to a scene. Whether it’s due to injury, fear, or exhaustion, the act of fainting can instantly shift the stakes in your story.

But how do you write it convincingly? How do you ensure it’s not overly dramatic or medically inaccurate? In this guide, I’ll walk you through the causes, stages, and aftermath of passing out. By the end, you’ll be able to craft a vivid, realistic fainting scene that enhances your narrative without feeling clichéd or contrived.

2. Common Causes of Passing Out

Characters faint for a variety of reasons, and understanding the common causes can help you decide when and why your character might lose consciousness. Below are the major categories that can lead to fainting, each with their own narrative implications.

Physical Causes

Blood Loss: A sudden drop in blood volume from a wound can cause fainting as the body struggles to maintain circulation and oxygen delivery to the brain.

Dehydration: When the body doesn’t have enough fluids, blood pressure can plummet, leading to dizziness and fainting.

Low Blood Pressure (Hypotension): Characters with chronic low blood pressure may faint after standing up too quickly, due to insufficient blood reaching the brain.

Intense Pain: The body can shut down in response to severe pain, leading to fainting as a protective mechanism.

Heatstroke: Extreme heat can cause the body to overheat, resulting in dehydration and loss of consciousness.

Psychological Causes

Emotional Trauma or Shock: Intense fear, grief, or surprise can trigger a fainting episode, as the brain becomes overwhelmed.

Panic Attacks: The hyperventilation and increased heart rate associated with anxiety attacks can deprive the brain of oxygen, causing a character to faint.

Fear-Induced Fainting (Vasovagal Syncope): This occurs when a character is so afraid that their body’s fight-or-flight response leads to fainting.

Environmental Causes

Lack of Oxygen: Situations like suffocation, high altitudes, or enclosed spaces with poor ventilation can deprive the brain of oxygen and cause fainting.

Poisoning or Toxins: Certain chemicals or gasses (e.g., carbon monoxide) can interfere with the body’s ability to transport oxygen, leading to unconsciousness.

3. The Stages of Passing Out

To write a realistic fainting scene, it’s important to understand the stages of syncope. Fainting is usually a process, and characters will likely experience several key warning signs before they fully lose consciousness.

Pre-Syncope (The Warning Signs)

Before losing consciousness, a character will typically go through a pre-syncope phase. This period can last anywhere from a few seconds to a couple of minutes, and it’s full of physical indicators that something is wrong.

Light-Headedness and Dizziness: A feeling that the world is spinning, which can be exacerbated by movement.

Blurred or Tunnel Vision: The character may notice their vision narrowing or going dark at the edges.

Ringing in the Ears: Often accompanied by a feeling of pressure or muffled hearing.

Weakness in Limbs: The character may feel unsteady, like their legs can’t support them.

Sweating and Nausea: A sudden onset of cold sweats, clamminess, and nausea is common.

Rapid Heartbeat (Tachycardia): The heart races as it tries to maintain blood flow to the brain.

Syncope (The Loss of Consciousness)

When the character faints, the actual loss of consciousness happens quickly, often within seconds of the pre-syncope signs.

The Body Going Limp: The character will crumple to the ground, usually without the ability to break their fall.

Breathing: Breathing continues, but it may be shallow and rapid.

Pulse: While fainting, the heart rate can either slow down dramatically or remain rapid, depending on the cause.

Duration: Most fainting episodes last from a few seconds to a minute or two. Prolonged unconsciousness may indicate a more serious issue.

Post-Syncope (The Recovery)

After a character regains consciousness, they’ll typically feel groggy and disoriented. This phase can last several minutes.

Disorientation: The character may not immediately remember where they are or what happened.

Lingering Dizziness: Standing up too quickly after fainting can trigger another fainting spell.

Nausea and Headache: After waking up, the character might feel sick or develop a headache.

Weakness: Even after regaining consciousness, the body might feel weak or shaky for several hours.

4. The Physical Effects of Fainting

Fainting isn’t just about losing consciousness—there are physical consequences too. Depending on the circumstances, your character may suffer additional injuries from falling, especially if they hit something on the way down.

Impact on the Body

Falling Injuries: When someone faints, they usually drop straight to the ground, often hitting their head or body in the process. Characters may suffer cuts, bruises, or even broken bones.

Head Injuries: Falling and hitting their head on the floor or a nearby object can lead to concussions or more severe trauma.

Scrapes and Bruises: If your character faints on a rough surface or near furniture, they may sustain scrapes, bruises, or other minor injuries.

Physical Vulnerability

Uncontrolled Fall: The character’s body crumples or falls in a heap. Without the ability to brace themselves, they are at risk for further injuries.

Exposed While Unconscious: While fainted, the character is vulnerable to their surroundings. This could lead to danger in the form of attackers, environmental hazards, or secondary injuries from their immediate environment.

Signs to Look For While Unconscious

Shallow Breathing: The character's breathing will typically become shallow or irregular while they’re unconscious.

Pale or Flushed Skin: Depending on the cause of fainting, a character’s skin may become very pale or flushed.

Twitching or Muscle Spasms: In some cases, fainting can be accompanied by brief muscle spasms or jerking movements.

5. Writing Different Types of Fainting

There are different types of fainting, and each can serve a distinct narrative purpose. The way a character faints can help enhance the scene's tension or emotion.

Sudden Collapse

In this case, the character blacks out without any warning. This type of fainting is often caused by sudden physical trauma or exhaustion.

No Warning: The character simply drops, startling both themselves and those around them.

Used in High-Tension Scenes: For example, a character fighting in a battle may suddenly collapse from blood loss, raising the stakes instantly.

Slow and Gradual Fainting

This happens when a character feels themselves fading, usually due to emotional stress or exhaustion.

Internal Monologue: The character might have time to realize something is wrong and reflect on what’s happening before they lose consciousness.

Adds Suspense: The reader is aware that the character is fading but may not know when they’ll drop.

Dramatic Fainting

Some stories call for a more theatrical faint, especially in genres like historical fiction or period dramas.

Exaggerated Swooning: A character might faint from shock or fear, clutching their chest or forehead before collapsing.

Evokes a Specific Tone: This type of fainting works well for dramatic, soap-opera-like scenes where the fainting is part of the tension.

6. Aftermath: How Characters Feel After Waking Up

When your character wakes up from fainting, they’re not going to bounce back immediately. There are often lingering effects that last for minutes—or even hours.

Physical Recovery

Dizziness and Nausea: Characters might feel off-balance or sick to their stomach when they first come around.

Headaches: A headache is a common symptom post-fainting, especially if the character hits their head.

Body Aches: Muscle weakness or stiffness may persist, especially if the character fainted for a long period or in an awkward position.

Emotional and Mental Impact

Confusion: The character may not remember why they fainted or what happened leading up to the event.

Embarrassment: Depending on the situation, fainting can be humiliating, especially if it happened in front of others.

Fear: Characters who faint from emotional shock might be afraid of fainting again or of the situation that caused it.

7. Writing Tips: Making It Believable

Writing a fainting scene can be tricky. If not handled properly, it can come across as melodramatic or unrealistic. Here are some key tips to ensure your fainting scenes are both believable and impactful.

Understand the Cause

First and foremost, ensure that the cause of fainting makes sense in the context of your story. Characters shouldn’t pass out randomly—there should always be a logical reason for it.

Foreshadow the Fainting: If your character is losing blood, suffering from dehydration, or undergoing extreme emotional stress, give subtle clues that they might pass out. Show their discomfort building before they collapse.

Avoid Overuse: Fainting should be reserved for moments of high stakes or significant plot shifts. Using it too often diminishes its impact.

Balance Realism with Drama

While you want your fainting scene to be dramatic, don’t overdo it. Excessively long or theatrical collapses can feel unrealistic.

Keep It Short: Fainting typically happens fast. Avoid dragging the loss of consciousness out for too long, as it can slow down the pacing of your story.

Don’t Always Save the Character in Time: In some cases, let the character hit the ground. This adds realism, especially if they’re fainting due to an injury or traumatic event.

Consider the Aftermath

Make sure to give attention to what happens after the character faints. This part is often overlooked, but it’s important for maintaining realism and continuity.

Lingering Effects: Mention the character’s disorientation, dizziness, or confusion upon waking up. It’s rare for someone to bounce back immediately after fainting.

Reactions of Others: If other characters are present, how do they react? Are they alarmed? Do they rush to help, or are they unsure how to respond?

Avoid Overly Romanticized Fainting

In some genres, fainting is used as a dramatic or romantic plot device, but this can feel outdated and unrealistic. Try to focus on the genuine physical or emotional toll fainting takes on a character.

Stay Away from Clichés: Avoid having your character faint simply to be saved by a love interest. If there’s a romantic element, make sure it’s woven naturally into the plot rather than feeling forced.

8. Common Misconceptions About Fainting

Fainting is often misrepresented in fiction, with exaggerated symptoms or unrealistic recoveries. Here are some common myths about fainting, and the truth behind them.

Myth 1: Fainting Always Comes Without Warning

While some fainting episodes are sudden, most people experience warning signs (lightheadedness, blurred vision) before passing out. This gives the character a chance to notice something is wrong before losing consciousness.

Myth 2: Fainting Is Dramatic and Slow

In reality, fainting happens quickly—usually within a few seconds of the first warning signs. Characters won’t have time for long speeches or dramatic gestures before collapsing.

Myth 3: Characters Instantly Bounce Back

Many stories show characters waking up and being perfectly fine after fainting, but this is rarely the case. Fainting usually leaves people disoriented, weak, or even nauseous for several minutes afterward.

Myth 4: Fainting Is Harmless

In some cases, fainting can indicate a serious medical issue, like heart problems or severe dehydration. If your character is fainting frequently, it should be addressed in the story as a sign of something more severe.

Looking For More Writing Tips And Tricks? 

Are you an author looking for writing tips and tricks to better your manuscript? Or do you want to learn about how to get a literary agent, get published and properly market your book? Consider checking out the rest of Quillology with Haya Sameer; a blog dedicated to writing and publishing tips for authors! While you’re at it, don’t forget to head over to my TikTok and Instagram profiles @hayatheauthor to learn more about my WIP and writing journey! 

[whitehairandblood]

Defiant whumpee but they're cooperating

(sadistic whumper vibes)

"I'm comi--I said I'm COMING!" *Crying, as whumpee is painfully manhandled anyway*

"Get on your knees." Whumper orders. "Fuck you," whumpee growls as they thump to the floor.

"Honestly I would've been gentler, but you had to resist," whumper shrugs. "I did everything you told me to!" Whumpee shouts. "Yeah, but I don't like your attitude."

"I'll do anything you want, please just stop!" Whumpee begs. Whumper pretends to consider it for a moment. "But... I want you to take another punishment. Can you do that for me?"

"Bastard, you can't control me!" "I can't? Then... why are you naked? Did you do that because you wanted to?" Whumper laughs at whumpee's flustered face. "Because that would be almost better."

Whumpee cursing at whumper every time they shove them around, but not fighting back

"it's like you want me to do this to you, isn't it?" Whumper eggs them on. "I didn't ask for this, you motherfucker!" "Then why are you still provoking me?"

"don't give me that look." Whumper points at whumpee's glaring face. Whumpee hisses a breath in. "Do you want me to fucking smile?"

Muttered curses every time whumper touches them

Giving the answers whumper wants to hear--in a dejected monotone.

"are you going to be good?" "Yes." "Do you want a treat?" "...yes..." "But you were bad, so you don't deserve a treat do you?" *Soft sigh* "no..." "What do bad pets get?" Whumpee shudders. "Answer the question, whumpee. What do bad pets get."

Can do this with living weapon whump too. "Let's try this again, weapon." "Yes sir." "What did you do?" "I let them live--I-I created a liability! ...sir." "And what happens when you turn on your owners?"

"Sir, can I --" "No." Whumpee grinding their teeth and keeping their face turned away to hide their bitter anger. "Yes sir."

[guys I have been gone for a while bc of bad life events but I'm coming back soon]

[whitehairandblood]

Manhandling--especially done in silence.

Content: manhandling, humiliation, beating

Slammed into the top of a desk with their arm twisted behind them

Whumpee wincing and freezing under whumper's weight as they realize they're trapped; if they move any more their wrist is going to break

whumpee crushing their lips in their teeth to hold back cries of pain that they'd be punished for

Guards shoving in a manacled, stumbling whumpee before the king, kicking him to his knees and forcing him to bow so low his forehead hits the flagstones

Fist in the hair to yank whumpees head up

Or fingernails bruising into the cheeks for the same goal

Whumpee frustrated to rage that they aren't being allowed to just walk straight, instead they have to throw them into walls and slam them down into seats

Looking up with a livid glare at main whumper when they get there

Whumpee starting to speak, "wait, just--" gets yanked so hard the words catch before he staggers forward

"I can walk." Whumpee growls next time they come for him. Snarky guard--"well, you're to be dragged."

When the whumpers step away from whumpee, now tied up and gagged on the floor, panting through his nose

Humiliating punishments like whipping while whumpee is tied up like this, whumpee floundering awkwardly away with a muffled shriek at every strike

Holding whumpee's arms so whumper can punch them over and over in the stomach

A lineup of prisoners, but whumpee is the only one that gets thrown and kicked into position

[whitehairandblood]

whumpee being yanked abruptly by their collar from behind. they don’t know what’s going on and can’t even see their assailant. maybe they are so shocked they just go along with wherever they are pulled.

[whitehairandblood]

To Break

@ailesswhumptober Day 1 Public Torture/Public Use, Stress Position, "If you cry we'll go easy on you."

Fandom: The Bad Batch Rating: Mature Word Count: 5451 Summary: Hunter has been captured by the Empire, and they attempt a public interrogation to get him to share where Omega is. The rest of his squad, knowing this is a trap, decides to attempt a rescue mission. WARNINGS: Graphic Depictions of Violence READ ON AO3

Echo had a hard set to his jaw as he filed through the intel that had just come in from Rex. It was… hopeful, but still wasn’t good.

He closed his eyes, letting out a long exhale through his nose.

There was no way around this—he had to tell them.

Echo stood, ignoring the slight ache where his legs used to be, and headed towards the bunks. Tech was on his datapad, dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, and Wrecker was resting on Gonky, not doing anything, listless.

“Any news from Rex?” Tech asked.

Echo leaned against the bulkhead, and crossed his arms.

“Yeah. It’s something, but it has me worried.”

“Well, what is it?” Wrecker asked, straightening.

“The Empire plans to publicly torture Hunter.”

“What?” Wrecker exclaimed.

“Where?” Tech asked.

“Anaxes,” Echo supplied.

“Hmm. An odd choice,” Tech said. “But ironic.”

“Probably trying to throw us off their scent,” Wrecker put in. “Keep us guessing about where any of their actual bases are.

“Crosshair’s there—at Anaxes,” Echo added.

Wrecker banged his head against Gonky.

Gonk!

Tech finally looked up. “Well, that complicates things.”

“So, are we going?” Wrecker asked. “What do we do?”

For a moment the three of them were silent. Ever since Hunter’s capture things had been… odd. No one was really sure who should lead, who should talk first, what ideas should be shared. And without Omega…

Echo was thankful they’d gotten her into hiding like Hunter had planned if this ever happened, but he still worried. She wasn’t alone, which was good, but what if being with Cut and his family wasn’t safe enough, wasn’t far enough away from the evil that ruled the galaxy?

“This is clearly a trap,” Tech said.

“Pfft, I know that,” Wrecker replied. “But it’s Hunter. We can’t leave him. They’ll probably try to get information on Omega, and what if—”

“Hunter would never break,” Tech said.

Echo looked away, trying to pay attention to a scratch just beside him on the bulkhead, wondering how it had gotten there, how long it had been there. It was better than…

Pain blinded him, so intense his brain seemed to short out.

In a second he was back on the Marauder, not… there. Not with the Separatists.

“You’d be surprised at how easy it is to crack,” Echo told them.

Tech’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay.”

“For what it’s worth,” Wrecker said to Echo, “you’re one of the bravest soldiers I know.”

Echo nodded, and tried to plaster a small smile on his face, anything to not show the dark memories that haunted him and lay just behind his eyes.

“Then if we take into account that Hunter could break and give them information on Omega, we have to go. It’s worth the risk.”

“What if we all get captured?” Wrecker asked.

Echo couldn’t help but think of the electro capsules that were drilled into the shadow troopers’ teeth. They’d come in handy here. Anything to protect Omega.

Tech looked at Echo, a shadow seeming to fall over his face, clearly considering the same thing.

“We’ll think of something,” Tech said, not voicing the dark plan they might need to fall back on. He stood, clipping his datapad on his belt. “I’ll set our course. Echo, how soon is this happening?”

“In two standard rotations.”

“Not a lot of time,” Tech mused. He rushed to the cockpit. “I’ll get us underway.”

~~~~~

Hunter didn’t know where he was. During all his transfers he’d been either drugged, blindfolded, or both. They even put wax in his ears. The drugs managed to dull his sense of smell, his touch. But they couldn’t touch the part of him that could feel electromagnetic frequencies. However, he wasn’t sure that was much help. All he knew was that he was in a base, and he could picture its shape, that it was almost like a giant cave. Something in the air against his face as he’d been transferred to his durasteel cell had felt familiar. He couldn’t quite place it.

Now, Hunter was in his cell, hunched over, head ringing, stomach roiling. The drugs tended to make him feel sick. He was being offered ration bars, but he hadn’t been able to keep a single one down. His body had stopped giving him hunger signals two rotations ago. They’d probably come raging back in full force if he was held captive in this cell long enough, his body telling him he would die, and begging him not to.

They gave him water, but Hunter could only drink it in small sips. Yet he managed to slowly drain every canteen, so at least there was that.

Currently he couldn’t even think about water without feeling more sick.

He squeezed his eyes shut, a groan leaving him. His cell seemed to close in around him, walls wavering.

There were familiar footsteps, coming closer, getting louder, the cadence suggested the booted feet belonged to long, lean legs. And more than that, a familiar scent hit Hunter.

A headache started up behind his eyes, his heart thudded too hard in his chest.

Just great.

The man who now stood across from him leaned against the wall, crossing his arms, sighing.

“You know, if you give up the location of the girl now, we won’t have to go through with your scheduled public torture.”

Hunter looked up, meeting Crosshair’s hard, cold eyes. Those eyes used to feel familiar, but now they were foreign, confusing.

“Give it a rest,” Hunter said. “You know I won’t talk.”

Crosshair shrugged. “Getting you to talk isn’t my job. That’s someone else’s problem.”

“You sure of that?” Hunter asked, knowing the Empire was cruel, and could change plans to make things worse in a second. They could request that Crosshair torture him. And even if he didn’t, he was his guard whenever he was moved from his cell. He’d have to see everything. Could Crosshair really do that? Was he that cold?

“Pfft. I’m just glad there’s one less defective freak running around, upsetting the order of things.”

Hunter huffed out a harsh laugh. “Well, from one defective freak to another…” He hardened his tone, his gaze. “How do you know the Empire won’t turn on you?”

“They would never—”

“Wouldn’t they?” Hunter hung his head, shaking it (and then regretting his actions because his body almost hurled up the bit of water he’d managed to drink). “Why are you here, Crosshair?”

“I’ve been ordered—”

“Yeah, you get to have the honor of guarding me during my big event. But why now? You’re not a grunt, or a reg. You’re special ops. They’re wasting you on guard duty.”

“Maybe I just wanted to see you fail.”

Hunter looked up, knowing his facial hair was growing out, that there were bags and dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, that he was pale, shaky, sweaty, his hair unkempt and oily.

“Get a good look then.”

In truth, Hunter wasn’t despairing. He didn’t care about himself, his safety. He cared about Omega, and if all had gone according to plan she would be safe. That was all that mattered. Hunter himself? He was a soldier, a… a father. He’d gladly suffer more than this if it kept his daughter safe.

“You’re pathetic,” Crosshair eventually said.

Hunter had a snarky reply, but it was one of brotherhood. And they were not brothers anymore. This was his enemy. That still speared his chest and infected his gut, filled him with guilt, and regret, and anger, and hurt. If Hunter let it show, he’d lose. The Empire would see, Crosshair would see, and they’d use it against him. There was already a chance that they might.

Pretending to be nonchalant, and that he didn’t feel like a wrung out wet rag, Hunter laid back on his hard bunk, arms behind his head, legs crossed. A faux-contented sigh left him.

“See you at the big torture event,” Hunter said.

Crosshair scoffed, seeming like he would say something, but then thought better of it and left.

Fear coiled tightly in Hunter’s gut, reaching out, and tightening his limbs till he nearly ached.

A tremor ran through him—fear, or the drugs, he didn’t know.

Sure, he’d been roughed up while captured, and during transport, and was sporting bruises along his ribs, and one along his jaw, but that wasn’t torture. Not yet. He wondered what they would do to him, if it would be standard electrocution, or something more creative.

Fear already had him seeing himself awash in blood.

~~~~~

Hunter had been stripped down to just his trousers. The way they hugged his body had never bothered him before, but as Crosshair escorted him past ranks of stormtroopers and officers, he was suddenly aware of how much of himself was on display. It felt like nearly all of him was there for them to gawk at, or to have access to, to hurt. He had been right about the bruises along his ribs. They were black and purple, some faint blue towards the center of them. He didn’t think his ribs were cracked though. Not yet.

His wrists were in binders, and he wondered what the point even was. With the amount of stormtroopers here he’d be nuts to try and escape. There wasn’t a good opening for it.

A wide double door opened, and Crosshair shoved him through. Hunter let out a surprised grunt, but kept his balance.

He had been led out to what looked like an airfield, now modified with a stage just for him.

“Wow, you went through all this trouble for me?” Hunter asked. “I feel so special.”

The cold butt of Crosshair’s rifle dug into his back.

“Shut up.”

The airfield led out to a dark landscape that he recognized. Anaxes.

“Why Anaxes?” he questioned as Crosshair led him up to the stage.

“I told you to keep quiet.”

Hunter felt like he was going to be sick as he realized there were tools on the stage, devices. The pain he felt in his gut was so severe it suddenly became difficult to put one foot in front of the other.

You’re doing this for Omega.

A durasteel contraption was in the middle of the stage, and he tried to ignore the jeers of the stormtroopers witnessing this.

The next part happened so fast, that he didn’t make much sense of all the ways Crosshair shoved and manhandled him. He just knew his discomfort in his body grew and grew.

By the time Hunter was trussed up with various binders, he was standing on his tiptoes—if standing it was—feet pressing back against the contraption, and he was leaning forward till his knees bent, so far forward he would have fallen if not for his arms being stretched out behind him, and bound, leaving him hanging there. The position hurt, and he knew that hurt would only grow worse.

An Imperial he had never seen before approached the stage. He had a black glove on his left hand, piercing blue eyes that were too bright, and he shared a similar hairstyle with Captain Howzer, though his black hair was slicked back more. He was massaging his left hand as he ascended the steps.

Hunter zoned out, already panting, thinking of nothing but his straining muscles and stretching tendons, the sweat already going down his face as this man addressed the audience, listing various crimes Hunter had committed against the Empire. The audience probably consisted of a couple hundred stormtroopers with various officers.

When the man was done he turned to Hunter, hands clasped behind his back. He leaned in.

“CT-9901,” he addressed him, voice breathy, almost sensual, “I am going to ask you where Omega is, and you are going to tell me.”

“As far as threats go,” Hunter panted out. “I’ve heard worse.”

He grabbed Hunter’s chin with his gloved hand, and he tried to pull away, but it put an awful strain on his neck, his shoulders, his shoulder blades. His body shook slightly, and he couldn’t move as this man touched him.

“Oh, you are mistaken, CT-9901. That was a promise. I’ve broken men before. I know where to apply pressure.”

“Go ahead and do it.”

“You’re going to regret those words.” 

He released him, and he nodded at some others who had approached the stage, wearing white lab coats. “Let’s begin.”

Hunter raised an eyebrow as one woman approached with… a razor?

“CT-9904, take his bandana off,” the head Imperial breathed.

Crosshair paused.

“Pardon… Doctor?”

“I gave you an order. Would you like to be trussed up next to CT-9901?”

Crosshair came forward and ripped off Hunter’s bandana, and for some reason something in his chest broke. Crosshair didn’t look at him, purposefully turning his head away.

Hunter growled as the young man with the razor approached.

“Hold him steady.”

Crosshair grabbed his face in an unrelenting grip, and Hunter squeezed his eyes shut as that thing in his chest broke even more.

~~~~~

A fierce cry rent the air, and Echo winced. He wasn’t sure if Hunter was being hurt quite yet, or if he was trying to fight the dehumanizing act of them shaving his head. Echo could understand. Hair was important to clones, especially with Hunter, and now…

His heart felt like it was getting squeezed, like he could barely live, barely breathe.

He carefully crawled a few meters back down the cliff, into cover.

“Tech, have you found any other entrances to this base?”

Echo hadn’t spotted any, but the crowd of armed stormtroopers was going to present a huge problem.

“My scans indicate there are several, including the airfield. I believe the western side entrance will be the least heavily guarded.”

Echo peeked again, poking his head up. His heart ached as Hunter’s dark hair fell away, onto the stage.

“Is that route close to Hunter?”

Crosshair stood by Hunter, rifle abandoned for now, something red in his hand that he kept staring at.

When Echo checked through his binocs, he saw what it was: Hunter’s bandana.

“Not exactly, no.”

His stomach turned as he saw someone with a glove on his left hand grab what looked like a drill.

He crawled back. “I don’t care that there are two-hundred troopers down there. I’m going for the airfield.”

“Echo, I deem that unwise.”

“They have a drill!” Echo cried through comms.

“I’ll bomb the airfield,” Wrecker suggested. “I won’t hit Hunter. I just need to distract them.”

A chocked scream sounded, and Echo closed his eyes, shaking. 

They must have all heard it because Tech said, “I have a better idea. This calls for drastic action. We’ll all fly in on the Marauder, I’ll fire into the stormtroopers with the forward canons. Wrecker, Echo, you get out there, grab Hunter, and we’ll get him back in the Marauder.”

“And Crosshair?” Wrecker asked.

“Leave him,” Tech said. “Only fight him if necessary.”

Echo let out a harsh laugh. “Yeah, it looks kinda necessary.”

He slid down the hill, faster than usual thanks to the glass-like terrain, and hit the ground running, the bit of cushioning in his armor absorbing the impact as well as it could. Still, an ache went into his torso. He ignored it, and started running for the Marauder, heart pumping hard to the sounds of Hunter’s screams.

~~~~~

Blood splattered the stage, the doctor (who Hunter had learned was named Hemlock), and himself. It was clogging in his left ear, burning his eye.

His entire body was shuddering, and rough groaning noises were leaving him. He could barely breathe, wasn’t sure how he was still alive. Hunter had been injured on missions before, but had never felt anything like this. The pain was sharp, sore, acute, an ache so fierce he thought it was going to kill him.

His strained body juddered as he tried to move away, tried to leave that pain behind. His shoulders were wrenched back, and he swore something popped. Maybe there was a snap.

The agony had him leaning forward, head hanging down. This only pulled at those new injuries more. It took everything in Hunter to keep breathing.

Hemlock didn’t ask him where Omega was.

Hunter wasn’t sure what he’d respond with if he was asked, and that terrified him.

“Hmm… how many ports do you think he will need to talk, CT-9904?”

Crosshair stiffened.

“O-one, sir.”

“Really? Would just one make you talk?”

“I… I don’t know. Sir.”

“Then do your job, so we don’t have to find out. Hold him steady.”

Hunter sobbed as Crosshair’s hands were on him again, lithe fingers used to pulling triggers and holding a heavy rifle steady and unflinching in their grip.

“Please, please, please, please, please…” Hunter begged, murmuring the word over and over again. “Just please stop. Stop.”

“Where’s Omega?” Crosshair asked, even though it didn’t seem his place to do so.

The whir of the drill started up, and Hunter wanted to die.

“No, no, no.”

He couldn’t break. He couldn’t. He couldn’t, he couldn’t, but oh stars, oh kriff…

The drill touched his head, and Crosshair held him steady as he tried to wrench it away, held him steady as blood poured from the wound, held him steady at the grinding of bone.

Hunter’s whole body was shaking. He couldn’t make sense of his surroundings, of who was touching him, and who was hurting him.

He just wanted it to stop. Please, just stop.

The drill ended its work, and Hunter’s vision was tunneling, the world too bright, yet going dark all at once.

A horrible groaning noise left him, spit dribbling out, as something poked into one of the holes. The other was soon given the same treatment.

When Hunter opened his eyes that Imperial—right, Dr. Hemlock—was holding his head.

“Crosshair,” Hunter murmured. “Where’s Crosshair?”

Hemlock ignored his words. “Now, you are going to tell me where Omega is. Or I can send electrical currents through those little wires I put in your head.”

Hunter thought he was going to be sick.

Omega, he thought. Omega.

He tried to keep his knowledge of her whereabouts from popping into his brain, but of course, that was impossible since Hemlock had mentioned her.

“Omega,” he murmured.

Hemlock squeezed his jaw in a brutal grip when he wasn’t forthcoming.

“Yes?”

Please, please… Omega.

“Omega,” he murmured again.

“Pathetic,” Hemlock said, sounding disgusted.

A cautious voice sounded to Hunter’s right: “I think, sir, he might have been pushed too far.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He released him, and then said to someone else, “Let’s begin. Twenty milli-amps.”

Then Hunter couldn’t breathe, his heart beat erratically, his body was spasming, and his head, oh kriff, his head. It was being stabbed and burned. Hunter bit his tongue, hot blood filling his mouth, and his shoulders were wrenched even worse than before. His legs ached and burned from trying to move while stuck in this awful, straining position.

Hunter wasn’t sure when the shock ended, but now he was breathing, and then he was screaming.

There must have been some communication Hunter missed because suddenly the butt of Crosshair’s rifle slammed into his diaphragm, and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t make a sound, body struggling to regain its air.

“Shut it,” Crosshair hissed.

A low groan left Hunter as Hemlock gripped his face again.

“CT-9901, where is Omega?”

“She’s… No, what are you doing?” Those last words were to himself. He hadn’t meant to say them out loud. “Omega.”

“Yes?”

Hunter spit blood into Hemlock’s eye.

He couldn’t laugh as he jumped back, rubbing at his eye, and cursing. Any laughter would have been stolen from him anyway as the shocks started again.

Blasts tore through the airfield, durasteel ripping apart, fire blooming and bursting in the air, ruined bodies flying.

The electric current wasn’t turned off. In fact, as he saw people rushing around amongst the chaos, he thought he might have been forgotten.

Troopers grabbed their blasters, and a familiar ship was hovering in Hunter’s line of vision.

The electric current was finally shut down. Hunter managed to tilt his head, and he saw Crosshair at the machine. For a second Hunter’s frightened mind thought he was going to hurt him again, but no, no… He was the one who had turned it off.

Crosshair gave him a nod.

It took everything in Hunter to not pass out as his breathing and heart rate attempted to regulate. He didn’t know where to look: at the blood that had dripped down onto the stage, the wires trailing from his head, the troopers firing at his brothers, Crosshair…

A bright blast seemed to sear his mind, the force of it pressing against his worn and abused body. Everything went black for a few seconds.

~~~~~

Echo was off the Marauder before they’d fully landed. A stormtrooper came at him, and he fired right at their head. They went down, but that still left under two-hundred to contend with.

He had taken note of the Imperial who had been on the stage, most likely questioning Hunter, but he had slipped away in the chaos.

The red anger that almost clouded Echo’s vision nearly had him go searching for him, taking Hunter’s revenge for himself. But no, he had to get to Hunter.

Everything became a blur of quick breaths, his pounding heart, and bodies going down wherever he was met on the field. Echo either killed or incapacitated them with bolts from his blaster, and for the ones who got too close, he drilled into their necks with his scomp.

Wrecker slammed a path right through to the stage, as Tech guarded the entrance to the Marauder, shooting anyone who tried to board.

Echo rushed through the temporary corridor in the fighting that Wrecker had created. The steps to the stage were blocked, and he couldn’t get enough momentum to make the jump upwards.

Suddenly, a hand reached down.

Echo looked up.

Crosshair.

His gaze flashed to Hunter, who was bleeding, and sobbing, eyes unfocused, and Echo thought he was going to throw up because those things sticking out of his head, those were wires.

He needed Echo’s help, and Echo had to get to him first.

Crosshair would have to do.

He took his hand, and scrambled up, Crosshair grunting at his weight as he pulled.

“Those legs of yours are heavy,” he commented.

Echo punched him in the face as an answer, putting his entire body into it.

There had been so much momentum behind it that it knocked Crosshair down, who lay groaning, helmet knocked off.

Echo rushed over to Hunter. Hunter started screaming, and thrashing as Echo started undoing his bindings.

“It’s me!” Echo cried to him. “It’s me. It’s Echo.”

Hunter’s bleary, reddened eyes traveled to look at his armor, his helmet.

“Echo.”

He collapsed against him as Echo undid the final binding.

“Hunter, I’m going to have to take those wires out of your head now,” Echo said.

Hunter’s grip on him was surprisingly strong as he lay there, starting to beg.

“No, no, no, no. Don’t— No, don’t do it. Don’t touch me.”

Echo wanted to console him, but there was no time, and he wasn’t sure any bit of consoling would help until he was detached from that machine.

Echo felt a wire get tugged from his own aching head as he did so with Hunter. Hunter convulsed on him for a few seconds, and then something wet came out of his mouth. Blood, and vomit. He didn’t care, didn’t care at all that Hunter had gotten sick in his lap. He just needed to help him.

He blinked tears out of his eyes as he pulled the other wire free, grunting as he felt it in his own head, like he was still on Skako Minor, still just a piece of property to be tortured until he gave up what they wanted.

Hunter stilled, and for a second Echo thought he was dead. He checked his pulse. It was thready, but still there. He tried lifting him, but he was dead weight. And his head wouldn’t stop bleeding.

Echo was about to call that he needed help, but Crosshair was already there, wrapping Hunter’s bandana tight over the wounds, and then helping Echo get him to his feet, sharing in some of Hunter’s weight.

“Why are you helping us?” Echo asked him.

Suddenly the sniper’s sidearm seemed to be aimed at his head.

Echo’s heart leaped into his throat.

Crosshair fired.

And the blast went past him, to a stormtrooper who had mounted the steps on Echo’s side. Their body dropped, a smoking hole in their head.

“Come on,” Crosshair said, thoroughly ignoring Echo’s question.

Echo bit back a retort, so many different emotions warring inside, and carried Hunter down the stage.

A trooper got too close, and they learned how deadly Echo’s bloodied scomp was.

There was no adrenaline rush from the blaster fire and fighting bodies that surrounded him. He was trained so well, had been in so many battles, that his body knew how useless an adrenaline rush was. He possessed the ability to take in the details of the fight, and was able to move without much thought.

Wrecker had cleared a circle around him, and troopers were getting scared to approach him, trying to fire at him from a distance. Wrecker just used the bodies of troopers who had fallen as shields. The excitement of battle had taken him, and he was yelling, challenging his enemies.

And yet Wrecker quieted and stepped out of his fighting stance as soon he saw Echo and Crosshair hauling Hunter.

“Sarge!” he cried.

In a flash, Wrecker was over to them.

“I’ll take him from here.”

Echo nodded his thanks, breathing hard. Wrecker put Hunter over his shoulder like he weighed nothing. Echo had his back as they rushed back to the Marauder.

“Tech, get ready to go!”

Tech fired one more blast, and hurried inside. Echo guarded their exit, and was the last one on board.

Before he could ask Crosshair what his plan was, what was going on, if he was coming with them, the blasts renewed their intensity, troopers knowing they were losing their prisoner, and losing high value targets. Echo ducked under some blasts, but couldn’t move in time to keep his left leg from getting damaged.

He luckily didn’t feel pain in his mechno-legs, but the damaged joint of his knee still buckled, and he almost collapsed. Crosshair turned, and fired at the troopers as Echo tried to haul himself inside.

There was yelling inside the ship, about the state Hunter was in, and Echo was anxious to get to him.

Tech took off right as Echo dragged himself in, looking down at Crosshair as he defended their escape.

Echo couldn’t yell that they had to go back for him. There was no time, Hunter was badly wounded…

Yet his heart tore. Crosshair. He had helped them.

“Echo, take over flying!” Tech called.

Echo hauled himself up, and limped over to the pilot’s seat.

“Wrecker, get to the gunner’s mount,” Echo said, seeing Imperial ships take to the air. “We’ve got company.”

“But Hunter.”

“I will care for him,” Tech assured.

~~~~~

Every rock of the Marauder, every tilt, every turn, any bit of motion, had Hunter gritting his teeth in pain. He was clenching his jaw so tightly that cold zings of agony shot though his teeth and into the jaw, his cheeks, into the wounds in his head.

Hunter grabbed Tech, and sobbed against his abdomen. His whole body hurt, any bit of motion too much, and he felt cold, and not like himself. They’d watched. They’d watched him lose himself, watched his identity be torn from him, had jeered at his pain, his exposed body.

Hunter wondered if he kept his eyes closed if he’d stop seeing it, stop feeling the cold all along his body like a million eyes watched him.

He cried out as Tech injected something into his arm.

“For the bleeding,” he told him.

Then he moved Hunter as gently as he could, trying to get him off of him, but Hunter refused to let go of his thigh.

He couldn’t be alone, couldn’t—couldn’t handle this, any of this.

Blasts rocked the Marauder, and Hunter screamed.

“You might want to strap in!” Echo cried.

Tech cursed quietly, and hauled Hunter up, each touch, each motion bringing more pain.

Tech got him in a seat, and got the safety bars over him, and Hunter tried to hold on, but his fingers were weak and shaky, and his shoulders were screaming with each movement. Maybe Tech noticed because he stood in front of him, holding him steady even as he had to constantly shift to stay balanced.

After a chase and aerial fight that made Hunter black out twice, they were in hyperspace. When Hunter was released from his seat, he collapsed against Tech.

“Wrecker, I need you,” Tech called.

“On it.”

Wrecker was there faster than Hunter anticipated.

“What do you need?”

“Hold him down.”

Hunter started begging as he was shifted into Wrecker’s arms, and as his brother held him down, he didn’t care about the injuries to his shoulders, the strains his muscles had suffered from, he began to claw, and thrash. Begging, begging…

He couldn’t take it anymore. Why did no one understand that he couldn’t take it, that he just wanted it to stop?

“Please, make it stop. Make it stop. Don’t do this to me.”

He didn’t even know what Tech was going to do.

But when he saw him come in his line of vision with rolled gauze covered in bacta he started shaking so fiercely he thought he would break apart.

“Hold his head.”

“No, no, no…” he pleaded, scratching at Wrecker’s armor, and then screaming as he held his head, and kept his wounds exposed.

He kicked Tech quite soundly in the diaphragm as he came near, breath leaving him with an oof!

“Echo!” Tech called.

Echo limped over, and just sat down on Hunter, the full weight of him keeping his legs steady.

“It’s okay,” Echo lied to him. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“I don’t know where Omega is,” Hunter lied. “Please, I don’t know where she is. I don’t know. I don’t know!”

He wasn’t sure where he was, who was holding him, but he knew he couldn’t give up his daughter.

“Please, please! I don’t know!”

The gauze was pressed into one of his wounds, and then the other. Quick, and efficient. It sent an aching throb throughout his entire head, and he sobbed.

“I don’t know,” he murmured, shaking, as Wrecker held him up, Tech bandaging his head.

“Please.”

“It’s okay, Hunter,” Tech told him. “It’s us. You’re safe. Omega’s safe. I presume. Did you…?”

Echo smacked his arm. “Listen to him. Do you really think he talked?”

Tech adjusted his goggles. “Well, we need to know for certain.”

Wrecker’s tight grip turned into a hug, and a reassuring pat.

“I didn’t… I didn’t say anything,” Hunter responded.

With a shaking hand, right shoulder aching and begging him not to move, Hunter felt gingerly at his head. Not the injured side, but the rest of it.

“My… hair,” he breathed.

Echo squeezed his thigh.

“I know.”

“M-my head.”

“I know. You’re gonna be okay, Hunter.”

He almost laughed at how utterly ridiculous that sounded. Then he did. That was laughter leaving him, even as tears streamed down his cheeks. Tech started on cleaning the blood from his face.

“How do you know that?” he asked Echo.

“Because I am,” he answered.

Hunter looked at him, at his head that refused to grow hair, damaged from chemicals, at the closed up ports they hadn’t been able to remove.

Hunter met his golden eyes, eyes that had once been brown like his. “How?”

Echo shrugged. “I have all of you.”

The sentiment rang hollow in Hunter’s chest.

“How about we go get Omega?” Wrecker suggested.

“I don’t think it’s safe yet,” Tech said. “They’ll be looking for us, and for her with redoubled efforts.”

“No,” Hunter said. “I… I don’t want her to see me… like this.”

As he shivered, wishing he had some clothes, or a blanket, feeling too exposed, Hunter wasn’t sure he wanted anyone to look at him ever again. But what was there to look at? He didn’t even look like himself. Would he again? Would Hunter ever recognize himself again?

He hadn’t talked, but perhaps he’d been broken all the same.