My Errant Thoughts

Long works

Living Weapon - based on a prompt I saw. (Fair warning, it kinda spoils things that I have planned.) Where Whumpee is separated from their team, and recreated into a living weapon. 1/?

One shots/drabbles

Ruined - recaptured Whumpee

Good For Nothing -Recovering living weapon

(Title subject to change)

Going Once, Going Twice

———

“And it’s really a true killing machine? It doesn’t look all that strong.” The man circling the weapon observes.

“I can assure you, all of our weapons are reinforced internally. This way, them being overly bulky won’t blow any sort of cover. A perfect disguise.” The guild handler promises. “But if you like, I’d be happy to put on a demonstration. Seeing is believing, and we want our products to speak for us. Not only our reputation.”

The high ceilings of the Guild Hall sends Handlers voice echoing. It’s a beautiful room. White marble floors, gold columns stretching up to the ceiling, red banners bearing the guild crest draped along the walls. It’s empty right now, save for the weapon, standing at attention before it’s handler, the prospective buyer, and a few weapons still as statues posted by the doors. Weapon doesn’t move as the potential buyer steps back, considering. They don’t flinch, don’t react at all to the prospect of demonstration. It’s nothing they haven’t been through before.

“Yeah, alright. Let’s see what it’s got.” The man agrees.

“Excellent.” Handler snaps his fingers towards the weapons near the door, and they leave the room. Then he turns back to Weapon. “Command issue.“

Weapon perks up, eyes glued to handler. “Ready to receive, sir.”

“We’re doing a demonstration. A man will be brought out, and handed a few weapons. You are to ensure he doesn’t harm me, or yourself, and take him down. Without killing him. You know what, let’s say no harm either, to prove your control. You will not begin until I say so.”

“Yes sir.” The moment Weapon agrees, the ones from before return, dragging between them a man who struggles and kicks with all his strength. It’s no use against weapons, but he does put up a fight. He has a few visible injuries, but not many. Probably to prove to the buyer that the weapon can handle someone in good health. The weapons drop the man, and leave the room, one of them pausing to pass Handler a wicked looking knife.

Weapon watches impassively as Handler places the knife in the prisoner's hand. The prisoner pauses, bewildered, for only a few seconds before his eyes harden and he raises the blade, lunging at Handler.

“Begin.” Handler says simply.

Weapon moves fast, shoudler checking the man so that he loses the path towards Handler. The prisoner stumbles back a bit, but then he bears his teeth and swings his knife at the Weapon, who dodges easily. Weapon drops, and sweeps the man off his feet, careful to catch him before he hits the ground, then dropping him again from height that won’t hurt. It acts before the prisoner can rise, pinning him with one arm, and stepping on the blade so the prisoner can’t free the knife. The man thrashes a bit, but it’s useless. Once satisfied he won’t get up. Weapon turns towards the handler, who is smiling.

“Very good.” He turns towards the buyer, “As you can see, our products are very precise, efficient, and controlled. They don’t need to deal any damage to subdue a threat. And if you’re looking for something else, well…” Handler takes a step back. “Command issue, take the knife, throw it away, and let him up.”

Weapon does so, chucking the blade halfway across the room, and taking one step back and allowing the prisoner to scramble to his feet.

“When I say so,” the handler continues, “kill him. And no blood. I hate when there’s blood in here.” Handler reaches into his holster and pulls out a gun, tossing it to the prisoner, who fumbles with it for a second, before raising it and training it on Weapon, expression desperate and panicked.

“Go.” Orders Handler, a second before the bang of a gunshot rings out. Weapon dodges the bullet with ease, then the next, closing the distance between him and the prisoner without so much as a graze touching him. The man’s eyes are wide and scared, but he doesn’t speak until Weapon is close enough to see its own reflection in the prisoners pupils.

“Ple-“ Weapon doesn’t let him finished, snapping the man’s neck and letting his body fall. The weapon takes a step away, folding its hands behind its back and waiting for Handlers next order.

“That is impressive.” The buyer admits, almost begrudgingly. Handler grins, and clasps his hands the way he does when closing a deal.

“Our weapons are trained out of all humanity. Its goals will only be your goals, should you choose to purchase. They feel no fear, they will never speak against you, all you need to do is aim it at your enemies, and it will do the rest.”

“And the price?” The buyer asks skeptically.

“It depends on the particular model. This one is a bit higher end, but I’d be glad to show you some others.”

“Let’s say the price for this one.”

Handlers grin widens. “Nothing you can’t afford sir, and I assure you, it’s worth it. Come here. Kneel" Handler throws the order over his shoulder. Weapon strides over, stopping just in front of handler and dropping to its knees. Handler grabs its face and turns it towards the buyer.

“Note the features? The lack of scars or distinguishing outward traits? This one blends in flawlessly, perfect for covert missions. And as you’ve already seen, it’s efficient and deadly.”

The buyer eyes the weapon up and down. “…Covert is good. I’ll take it. Where do I sign?”

“Right this way.” Handler chirps, releasing weapons face to lead the buyer away. The buyer hesitates, eyeing the weapon, but handler just smiles. “It won’t move until I tell it to, or until you give the order, since once we come back in this room, you’ll be the master.”

The man smiles at the thought, and follows Handler. Weapon doesn’t move a muscle as it listens to them leave.

The weapon kneels there for a long time, with only the body of the prisoner for company. Its knees begin to ache, but it’s easily brushed aside. Weapons don’t feel ‘achey knees’. They don’t feel anything at all. The weapon doesn’t try to shift to reduce the ache as it looks into the empty eyes of the prisoner.

You wouldn’t know, but it’s mercy. It thinks. You die a person. That’s mercy.

They were a person once, it recalls. The memory has nearly been beaten out of them, they can’t remember much from that life, but once they were a person. When they first arrived here, the person they were felt like they would rather die rather than be a weapon. They tried to, a couple times. It hadn’t worked. Now they were this. And they felt nothing about it all.

They wonder if their new place will be like this one. The dark, empty quiet room with nothing save for absolute necessities. One would never imagine such a room existed right beside the opulence of the hall, but just out of sight, there was the armory barracks, where the weapons lay when they weren’t in use. If Weapon could feel anything, they might miss that place. The quiet breathing of the other weapons around them who understood what it meant not to be a person anymore. It was almost…comforting.

Weapon doesn’t move, but turns its senses back to the present as the footsteps of the buyer and Handler reapproach.

“Weapon, look here.” Handler orders. It obeys. The buyer is holding a thick file, and Handler is holding a small shiny disk with numbers etched into its face. The weapon recognizes it. That’s the disc that was used to brand it and mark it as guild property. The numbers are it’s callsign. It tenses as handler passes the talisman over to the buyer.

“Don’t lose that. It will obey the one who holds it.” Handler warns the man before turning back to weapon. “You are now under the command of this man. You will obey his orders, so long as they do not violate the law of the Guild. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.” The weapon turns to the buyer. “Ready to receive orders, sir.”

Handler turns to the man, beaming. “How’d you like to give your first order? Go on. Tell it something.

The man hesitates, fiddling with the disc, looking at the Weapon knelt before him.

“Stand.” Orders the man, with a touch of uncertainty. The weapon obeys, rising to its feet. The man raises an eyebrow, and smiles.

“Come here.” The weapon walks closer.

“Stop.” The weapon freezes. The man grins wider like a child that’s just received a new toy.

“Very good.” Says Handler. “Now that that’s settled, remember they tend to respond better to officially issued commands when on a long mission. All the documents you need explaining specifics are right in that file there.”

“Got it.” The man flips through a few pages of the file before shutting it. “Pleasure doing business with the guild.” The man says, smiling.”

“The pleasure is ours.” Handler replies earnestly. “Best of luck in your endeavors, though with its help, you won’t need luck-“

“Yeah, yeah. Save the spiel. I already bought the thing.” Handler's eye twitches at being interrupted, but he says nothing. The man turns back to Weapon.

“Follow.” He orders. “Stay two steps behind.”

“Yes sir.” The weapon agrees. They measure their steps very carefully as they leave the place of their creation. They feel nothing about that at all. No one notices as they shoot one last glance to the broken body of the prisoner on the floor.

———

Whumpee had sworn they’d never gone back. Promised it to themselves. They know, deep down. They’ve known for a long time, death was preferable to being back with Whumper.

But they were weak. They’d always been weak. When the time came, when the mission failed and they’d been captured, they hadn’t been strong enough to follow through. They’d regret that. They knew they would. The beginnings of regret were already trickling in for however long they’d been hanging here by their wrists, just waiting. There was no cell. Not for them. Instead they were strung up right in the center of the base, watching as soldiers milled about. No one paid them any mind other then an errant glance, followed by eyes snapping away just as quick.

It’s not as though Whumper calls any more attention to himself than the average soldier. There’s no sudden shift in the air when he enters the room. Whumpee doesn’t even notice for a moment. Doesn’t notice until his voice is just a few feet away, making them flinch.

“Welcome home, love.” He croons. Whumpee tries to repress their shudder at that voice, making no move to respond. They keep their eyes down on the floor in front of them.

Whumper wastes no time, crowding right up in their face the way he always did, leaving Whumpee staring straight down at his shoes, speckled with blood.

“Look at me.” Whumper demands. Whumpee squeezes their eyes shut, and turns their head away, even as their memory screams at them to obey. It’s a fight not to fall into the old habits of deference. It’s a fight to keep the autonomy they’d worked so hard for with their team.

Whumper tsks, and lashes out to grab Whumpee by the chin, forcing their head to face front. In spite of themself, Whumpee's eyes shoot open to meet the annoyed, familiarly cruel eyes of Whumper.

“There was a time when you knew better than to disobey a direct order.” He muses. “Have your little friends wrecked you so thoroughly?”

Whumpees eyes dart away again at the mention of the team, trying to fight tears. The team had gotten away. They’d come back, surely. If Whumpee could just hold out for them, if they could just be strong…Whumper digs his nails into their face, forcing attention back on him, clicking his tongue in disapproval as he does so.

“Oh, darling, you truly have been ruined.” Mock sympathy lines his expression, and there’s a dangerous appraisal in his eye.

“Not beyond repair though.” He observes, almost casually. “No, I see traces of my Whumpee in you.” He gives a dagger sharp smile, leaning in even closer.

———

The first thing Caretaker thinks when they wake to the acrid smell of smoke is the worst. How could they not think the worst? Living Weapon(LW) certainly had people who wanted them dead very badly. They don’t waste time, throwing themselves out of bed, and following the smell of smoke to the kitchen, expecting something awful. Instead they see LW, standing in front of a lump of what was once food, now so burnt that Caretaker can’t even begin to wonder what it started as.

“LW?” They ask, taking a slow step forward.

LW shoots a panicked look over their shoulder, before shifting, as if they could possibly hide the plumes of black smoke billowing off the stove.

“Everything’s fine. I can fix it.” They insist, as their hands flutter nervously around the pan. Caretaker is already hurrying forward even before LW grabs the handle of the skillet. Even from a few feet away, Caretaker can hear the sizzle of skin. They pick up the pace when LW doesn’t immediately release the pan, instead moving to lift it off the stove, hissing through their teeth as they do so.

“LW, don’t!” They hardly think as they grab LW by the wrist and tear their hand away from the pan. In hindsight they were lucky they didn’t lose a finger pulling a stunt like that, especially with all the adrenaline that is surely pumping through LW’s system. As it is, LW lets themselves be pushed away, stumbling back. Caretaker shuts off the heat, making sure to grab a dish towel before moving the still smoking skillet beneath an open window, doing their best to wave some of the smoke away.

“Im sorry.”

Caretaker turns at the small voice, so quiet they can hardly hear it, and sees LW staring forward. Not meeting their eyes in the way they do when they think a punishment is coming. Caretaker sets the towel aside, shifting their focus to the more important issue.

“It’s fine. It was an accident, ok? I’m not going to punish you over it.” They assure gently.

LW doesn’t even seem to hear them, giving no response other than a slight shake of their head. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t make food.”

Caretakes glances at the pile of char, still smoking, and back to LW, brow furrowing in confusion. “It’s…it’s alright. You didn’t have to.”

“But I’m not supposed to fight anymore. You said so” LW protests, an almost desperate note playing at the edge of their voice. Caretaker frowns.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

LW turns away wrinkling their nose. “I can’t be useless.” They say matter-of-factly, as though it should’ve been obvious. “Captain always said so. I’m only kept around because I could fight for him. I’m not allowed to live if I can’t fight, and I can’t fight. I have to find something else, then. I can’t be good for nothing. I haven’t earned my keep here. I have to do something...”

Caretaker tries to see it. Tries to see the way anyone could’ve have done such things. Said such things to this kid. They see a child, forced to buy their life with blood. Then thrown out like garbage and left for dead. Their Captain had all but raised them, and taught them no other skills but war, and tied up all their use in that. It made them sick to think about. Caretaker takes stock of LW. They aren’t much older than that child now. Their expression is guarded, Arms down by their sides, one fist clenched tight, the other loose, held awkwardly a few inches away from their body.

“You burned yourself.” Caretaker recalls, cursing themselves for nearly forgetting.

LWs eyes meet theirs for a second, then drop to their hand, before darting away. “No.”

Caretaker raises an eyebrow at the clear lie, and takes a step forward. “Yes you did. Let me see.”

But LW steps back at the approach, dropping into a more defensive posture easily as breathing, expression twisting into a soldier's resolve. Caretaker freezes. They don’t want to be intimidated by this kid, but it’s no question LW could kill them. If they panicked for just a moment, that would be all it took. And at this point kill or be killed must be so deeply ingrained into them. In spite of themself, Caretaker takes a half step back.

Immediate LW’s face changes, brow furrowing in confusion before going slack with horror. They go ramrod straight, every muscle tensed for a blow that Caretaker would rather die than deliver.

“I…I'm sorry, captain.” Caretaker can’t help but suck in a pained breath at the title, even as LW continues rambling. “Please forgive me. I wasn’t…I didn't mean…I’m-“

“It’s alright.” Caretaker holds up their hands, hoping to appear as nonthreatening as possible. “I promise it’s alright. I’m sorry for startling you. I just want to make sure you’re ok.” They slowly extend one hand in the same way one might reach out to a feral cat “Please, may I take a look?”

LW hesitates for a long second before holding out their hand. Caretaker bites back a sigh of relief that there won’t be a fight about this as they gingerly take LW’s wrist to examine the injury. It’s bad. The palm is red, and blistering in some places where they’d tried to grab the pan.

“You need some cold water on this. May I?” They wait for LW to give a small nod before slowly leading them to the sink. LW doesn’t react at all as the cool water hits their blistering skin.

“Stay right here. I’m gonna get some cream for this.” They take a cautious step back, making sure they’ll stay. When they show no sign of moving, Caretaker turns, moving as quick as they can without running to grab the first aid kit from the bathroom.

When they return. LW is right where they left them, staring listlessly as the water flows around their fingers into the sink. They continue being silent and unresponsive as Caretaker turns of the sink, and pulls them to the couch. They don’t react as Caretaker gently dabs some cream on their injury and bandages it. When they’re done, the injured hand drops into their lap. Caretaker frowns.

“LW?” They ask tentatively. No response.

“LW, look at me.”

The kid does, although something in their expression still gives Caretaker the impression LW is looking through them. They do their best to maintain eye contact anyway.

“If you want to learn to cook, or some other skill, you’re more than welcome to do so. I’d be happy to teach you. But believe me when I tell you, you don’t have to buy your worth here. If you never cook a dish in your life you’ll still have a place here. I’ll never think you’re good for nothing. You have my word.”

LW takes a long time to respond, just turning their newly bandaged hand this way and that. Caretaker doesn’t miss the way their gaze drops for a moment to the other scars on their arm. Scars too precise to have been anything but intentional. Punishments, they knew. From their captain.

“Ok.” LW mutters. They don’t sound convinced. Caretaker waits to see if they’ll say more, but they stay stubbornly silent.

“Do you want me to help you with whatever you were trying to cook?” Caretaker prompts softly. LW is already shaking their head before they’re even done talking.

“No. I’m not hungry. May I retire to my room, cap-” LW doesn’t cut themselves off in time to stop them both from flinching. The kid turns their eyes to the floor. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. And yes, you can go where you like. I’ll make you something later.”

———

“So. What now?”

Villain tilts his head. Of all the things he was expecting after he betrayed Hero, screaming, yelling, crying, this quiet resigned question catches him so off guard. So disjointed with the loud, lively Hero he knows.

The Hero he loves.

He leans heavily on the bars that separate them, trying not to wince at the way Hero’s cuffs clink whenever they fidget. They never were any good at staying still.

“What…now?” He probes tentatively.

Hero gives him a scathing look, as though that’s the stupidest question he could’ve possibly asked. “Don’t play dumb. What am I still needed for? Why am I still alive? The only thing I can think is you and that boss of yours want an example made.” Villains stomach drops as Hero continues. “I’m hoping I’m wrong though. If you ever cared at all you’ll do me the solid of a private execution instead of public-“

“NO! No, never, I…I couldn’t kill you. I…look, it started as just a way to sabotage your organization. You know that now, but it still meant something. It wasn’t supposed to, but it meant something to me. Whatever happens, I do love you, ok? I need you to know I wasn’t lying about that.”

Hero searches his eyes, likely looking for any deception. He holds their gaze, hoping they can see the earnesty there. After a long moment, they sigh, and break eye contact to stare at the wall instead, a sad half smile playing on their lips. “You wanna know the worst part of all this?”

Villain blinks. Hero seems to take that as a sign to continue. “The worst part is I actually believe you. You say you love me, and I honestly think you’re telling the truth.” They sigh, and flicks their eyes back to him. All he can make out behind those eyes that he once could’ve stared into forever is a bone deep exhaustion. “And that makes it all so much worse.”

He furrows his brow. “How could that make it worse?”

“Because it wasn’t enough. You loved me, and it wasn’t enough to change anything. It never is. I’m still here.” They gesture to the dirty cell surrounding them . “You love me, but not enough to choose me over your cause. Not enough to not hurt me. Everyone loved me, but no one ever loved me enough to care. No one ever loved me enough not to hurt me. Do you know how exhausting that gets after a while?”

“I…I’m sorry.” It’s not nearly enough, but it’s all Villain can think to say.

Hero chuckles. “I figured. Not sorry enough to change though, right?”

He doesn’t respond. He can’t. Hero gives them a knowing smirk, even as they’re still smiling, a rueful, broken thing. A single tear cuts through the dirt and blood on their face, following the path of the existing tracks. They rests their head against the bars.

“You wanna know the second worst part of all this?”

He really doesn’t, actually. “…Tell me.”

Hero closes their eyes, facade finally cracking as their smile slips. Their words are a broken whispered confession, coated with a shame Villain understands too well.