Bleed for me

---

Well. The plan to pretend I don't know about it is already cancelled. The new guy immediately tattled to me. I didn't laugh at him, despite how much I wanted to. Instead I just said, "So?". He deflated so fast. I didn't let myself look at my guy's face during it, but I watched the video back and he delivered as usual. He was terrified when he thought he was going to get in trouble, and then the shocked look when I didn't care was just… wow. I can't wait for tonight, the new guy's definitely going to get punished for that. And I don't mean by me.

---

He did :)

I'm going to "accidentally" leave a scalpel in my guy today. See if he uses it on the new guy.

---

He did :)

---

Update! I moved the mics around because I can see that my guy's been talking to the new guy during the torture, but I couldn't hear what they were saying. And guess what. He's been saying he's helping the new guy. He's supposedly preparing him for what I'm going to do to him, which he says will be way worse. That is delightful. And very sweet of him to say, but I don't know if it's even true? Like I know he's new at this (at least I think he is? I didn't get the vibe from him when I picked him up, or in any of our sessions) but he's good. He knows all my tricks, which, you know. Of course he does.

I still haven't even touched the new guy since throwing him in the cell. I don't think I'm going to, either, at least not for a while. That's my victim's victim now. I even gave them some bandages so they can go farther. I can tell my guy's making sure to keep his guy alive.

---

Well it happened. New guy tried to kill my guy. I guess he stopped believing that I was worse, which I hope my guy is proud of. It didn't work, of course, my guy woke up and turned the tables on him pretty much in an instant. Told you this guy was good. I don't exactly have another cell, so the best I could do was give my guy handcuffs (and the standard lecture about how if you're not careful they can escape and use the handcuffs as a weapon). This is the first time I've ever taught him anything directly, I feel like a proud parent. Wonder what else I could teach him that he doesn't already know.

---

I just got them both so good. I put a speaker in there a while ago so I can talk to them, but I didn't tell them, obviously, and I hadn't used it. But just now I was watching them on the cameras and my guy went to cut near the femoral artery, so I said "Don't cut there, he'll bleed too much" and they both jumped out of their skins. Very fun. Honestly the bleeding probably would have been fine but I couldn't pass up the opportunity.

I kept giving tips for the rest of their session. I think he likes knowing that he's performing for an audience. Although he must have known there were cameras at least since the attempted murder (or is it just a homicide? You could probably get that counted as self defense) since he didn't tell me about it before I gave him the handcuffs. Which, by the way, he's been very creative with.

---

Oh man. I did something I absolutely should not have last night. I left him on the kitchen table. He was tied up but not securely enough to be left unattended the whole night, which I know for a fact because one of his hands was free this morning. I don't know why I did it. It wasn't a mistake — well it was, but not that kind of mistake. I intended to do it at the time. Extremely stupid. But he stayed?

I asked him why and first he said he was too hurt to move. Which is definitely bullshit, I haven't done that to him for a long time. It's too much work to get him back into the cell. And, more importantly, then he'd be too hurt to have fun with his victim.

But his next excuse was "What would I do? You have video of me." Which, I never thought about that. I guess it would make sense to release the videos if he turned me in. I'm he could probably get out of the charges by blaming it on me, but maybe he doesn't believe that. Or maybe he thinks everyone knowing what he's doing would be worse than… this? I mean he's literally imprisoned in a torture basement. Most nights anyway. Even prison should be better, really.

What was I thinking. That could've been such a mess.

---

We had a scare today. Daniel's victim (that's my guy's name, don't know if I've ever said) almost died, I had to come in to stop the bleeding. I tried to tell him that it was impressive he'd kept the guy alive as long as he had, and told him about how my first victim didn't even last 3 days, but that didn't seem to help. I guess he'd never really thought about this part. Maybe I should get him someone to practice on? It feels better if you're doing it on purpose, I think.

---

I don't get this guy. I let him stay upstairs again, but restrained properly this time. At least he was supposed to be restrained properly, but then I go to the kitchen this morning and he's got one hand free again! I don't know how (I should get a camera on the kitchen), but more importantly, with one hand free he should have been able to escape. The video excuse is definitely bullshit, right? What the hell is he doing?

---

I decided to just ask him and he said he just wants to be allowed to stay upstairs more. This is obviously a trap, right?

---

He's still acting like he's afraid of his victim, which is completely out of character. I don't mind for now, the guy needs time to recover anyway, but I'm not sure how long it's going to go on. I wonder if I should make him kill the guy to get it over with? But I don't want to ruin a good thing. Maybe I will get him one to practice on.

---

Well. He did not like that. He did not like that at all. But I did get him to do it. He'll appreciate it eventually.

I left the body in there with him. If he asks I'll tell him it's to help him get used to death, but to be honest I did it because I was mad at him. Maybe if you weren't so difficult about it you wouldn't have to deal with the body now, Daniel.

---

Already caught him poking the corpse. I knew I'd get him.

---

My guy is back! He put the corpse on top of his victim. Tied his legs down first and everything. I should get him some foot handcuffs (footcuffs?). The victim is not enjoying it but he can't get it off him. This is perfect. In fact I'm going to go get him right now.

---

We've never talked like that before. And I've never talked to anyone like that while actively slicing them open. It was nice. I think I was able to help him work through his feelings about killing someone. And he didn't put the blame on me, which is great. It wouldn't help him get used to it if he put the blame on me. I wish I could let him stay upstairs again, but I think he's still a little fragile and he might actually run this time.

I did take the corpse away at least. I'm not feeling very imaginative today so I'll probably just take this one to the dump.

---

I've got it. Those invisible fences that they have for dogs. The collar shocks you if you cross it. I can just put one of those in his chest and tell him it'll kill him if he crosses the line. I know it doesn't kill the dogs, but that's probably because it's not usually directly beside their heart. Or I could tell him I modified it to be lethal.

---

Nope. I just remembered there's this thing called biocompatibility. In my defense I have implanted things in people before, but it was all in people I didn't want to live for very long. Also I realized he's got hands so he could just find the breaker box and turn it off. It's so much harder to control people than dogs…

---

Not only is this the longest I've ever kept a victim, but now my victim's victim has lasted longer than any of my other victims. I realized it's different for him because he can't just go out and get another one when this one dies (I know, I should have thought of this sooner), so I made sure to tell him I'd get him a new one. He didn't seem to be very into it at the time, but then later I caught him on mic whispering "I'm going to kill you soon" to his victim. So I might be going hunting.

---

Yeah I'm definitely going hunting. Daniel's victim tried to make a run for it and got his chest caved in for it. By Daniel, to be clear. He seemed to regret it right away and was getting pretty worked up so I held him and told him how proud of him I was. I asked him if he wanted the corpse removed and he said yes, but he didn't seem sure about it. Maybe next time I'll push him on it.

---

Man, you'd think we practiced it. I brought the new guy down just like last time, only this time Daniel was on his victim's cot pretending to be handcuffed. He starts pleading to be let out, the new guy rushes over to do it, Daniel headbutts him and cuffs him. It was great stuff. Kind of dented Daniel's tough guy image to get locked in the cell too, but we'll get there. Maybe by the next one I'll have figured out how to keep him upstairs. It's annoyingly hard to secure a normal room from escape in a way that maintains plausible deniability.

---

Wait, I'm dumb. I don't need it to be secure, I just need it to be alarmed. If it wakes me up when he tries to escape I should be able to get him in time. Not necessarily non-lethally, unfortunately, but if I explain that to him I think he's smart enough not to run.

I already fall asleep listening to him most nights. It'll be nice to get to do it without the sound having to come through a microphone.

---

fuck you. my house now. hope you enjoy your own sick little torture dungeon

my name isn't even daniel, asshole

---

oh look, you killed your playmate. now you have nobody to torture. nice going, idiot. and I'm not taking the corpse away

---

sick fuck. i am taking the corpse away.

---

i shouldn't even be feeding you. i should just let you starve down there

---

turns out little bitch boy can dish it out but can't take it. this is going to be fun

---

Ooookay. That was bad. It should go without saying that I've never fucked up that bad before. But I got hold of Tyler (oops!) when he was torturing me (which I can take just fine, by the way) and he's back in his cell now.

Funny to think if any of the others got even a hint of that opportunity they'd have taken it in a heartbeat. I'd be in jail or dead right now and they'd be free. But not my Tyler. He's like me and he knows it.

I just told him that over the mic and he said to go fuck myself. I think he's embarrassed with himself right now but he'll get over it.

---

He contacted someone. He contacted someone! Of course he contacted someone, because that’s the worst possible decision he could have made. No identifying details, just a “I’m still alive, don’t worry about me” message but they traced it here. I had police inside my house. Thank god I wasn’t in the middle of a session. And that I didn’t have a screamer.

I gave them the decoy laptop but I didn’t have time to update it. It's supposed to have some kind of malware on it that gives me plausible deniability about incriminating internet traffic. Hopefully they find that and believe it. I don’t know. Maybe my computer guy can like, remote access it and plant something more specific.

---

He left. The corpse. In the fucking storage room.

I had police. In my home. With a corpse. In the closet.

He’s going to wish I killed him.

---

We’re leaving. I don’t think they’re going to buy the laptop coverup and I can't hide everything well enough to stand up to a police search.

I made a nice little montage of his torture footage (again, it's great work), with special attention to the two victims he killed. I cut around myself for the first one, not that it’s going to matter after they find my basement.

I remember a while ago I thought he’d be able to explain away any video evidence by pinning it on me. Not anymore. You can see it on his face, he’s clearly doing this because he wants to. And even if they can’t see that, he clearly killed the second guy for trying to escape. No jury who sees this wouldn’t convict. It’s a great video.

I’m going to show it to him and explain the deal. He can kill me, or get us caught, and this video will be sent to the police in 3 days. Or, he can come with me. As an equal. We’ll settle down somewhere, I’ll teach him how to hunt, we can get a place with 2 cells in the basement. Or maybe we just share. And I won’t hurt him any more (unless he wants me to).

There is a third option, where I just let him go and we keep each others’ secrets. Mutually assured destruction. But he won’t take it. I don’t know whether I found him or made him but he’s like me now. He knows he can't go back.

Time to see what he says.

---

He said yes!

I can’t believe I’m going to have a partner. This is going to be amazing. I got a little carried away in the proposal and said he could torture me once in a while, and honestly I think that might have been what sealed the deal. Which, hey, I guess it’s only fair. And it wasn’t wholly unp little bitch boy’s going to scream for me

Ok that was him, obviously, but I don’t care. There’s only one thing that would spoil my mood right now.

Speaking of which, this is going to be my last entry here. New life, new log. Maybe I’ll get my eloquent new partner to start his own. good luck with that

We really need to get going. See you never again.

---

6 Nov. 2024

California Killer At Large

A Sacramento man went missing just hours before a police search that uncovered evidence of multiple murders, police say. The search followed a message claiming to be from a missing person, which was traced to the home of 35-year-old Christopher McIntyre. Police contacted McIntyre before a warrant was issued, possibly tipping the killer off.

Police say at least one body was discovered on the property, with evidence suggesting the victim count is much higher. Also found were a large collection of surgical instruments, arm and leg restraints on the dining table, and a room described as a "holding cell" with two beds and surveillance equipment in the basement. Police speculate that the killer may have tortured the victims for an unknown amount of time before killing them.

A list of 26 names found on the property corresponds to 26 missing persons cases dating back at least 9 years, police say, with the majority of the disappearances being more recent. Police have not yet released the identities of the confirmed or suspected victims, but have stated that the missing person whose message tipped them off was not included, prompting speculation that the victim is still alive.

Police attempts to locate the suspected killer have been unsuccessful. The public is urged to stay watchful and report any suspicious behavior.

---

8 Nov 2024

Victim or Villain

This article contains graphic discussion of torture and death. Reader discretion is advised.

A shocking video of the torture and murder of two men surfaced on social media early on Friday. Internet sleuths quickly identified the perpetrator as missing person Tyler Owens, 29, previously believed to be the unidentified missing person whose message led to the discovery of suspected serial killer Christopher McIntyre.

Users on social media are divided on whether Owens was working with McIntyre willingly or was forced into committing the acts. Proponents of Owens' innocence emphasize the first killing in the video, where an unidentified man (believed to be McIntyre) is seen positioning Owens' hands and grasping his shoulder. The anti-Owens camp points to the second murder, where Owens grabs an escaping victim and throws him to the floor before stomping through his chest.

Other users don't think it matters whether McIntyre was influencing Owens, with one social media user posting "hey. killing people is bad even if you're being brainwashed. i cant believe this is a conversation we're actually having".

Users also debate the interpretation of Owens' expressions during the torture scenes, with one user posting "Ok when we started using the 'put me down as scared and horny' meme I didn't realize it was because some of you literally can't tell the difference".

The video is sparking additional controversies. TikTok star Kiera Supreme issued an apology for a now-deleted post that read "so i'm locked in a torture basement and im NOT supposed to torture someone? get real", and Instagram user jasonmimes took down a video in which he mimed (with impressive clarity) himself being forced to torture an invisible victim.

Whitney could've been resentful. She could've snapped at them to leave her alone, she could've made taking care of her difficult — she couldn't find it in herself. Everything about their situations seemed like they were much the same: they were both at the mercy of The Handler, even if only one of them was chained.

And the weapon… well, they were… gentle. Those hands that dealt devastating blows to her face and stomach just minutes prior were now softly assessing the damage, putting bandaids where the skin had split. They worked in silence, as usual. Whitney was the one who tried making conversation yet again, after several failed attempts.

"You don't like doing this," she said. Whether she meant beating her or taking care of her, maybe she didn't even know.

The weapon stayed silent. She didn't even know their name. She didn't think she ever even heard their voice. All she knew was their emotionless face, unfazed even in the midst of brutalising her. And yet, she couldn't be mad. She just couldn't.

"What's your name?" she asked for the hundredth time. She was prepared for the question to go ignored like every single time before, but instead, she saw the weapon open their mouth.

"I don't have one," they said, so quietly that Whitney had to strain to be able to hear it. The weapon's voice was cool but gentle, like a summer breeze. The words felt light in the air between them, despite their meaning carrying heavy and unwelcome connotations.

"Everyone has a name," Whitney said stupidly. She didn't know what the weapon had gone through. Where they grew up, whether they had family, whether they had friends, or whether all they had was The Handler. The Handler certainly seemed the type to strip everyone of everything they had, down to the name. But did the weapon never have a name, or had it been stripped away? That, Whitney didn't know.

The weapon didn't respond to that statement. There was the slightest twitch of their lips — and Whitney noticed, because they'd spent so much time together by this point, and with that emotionless mask they had on constantly, there was little else to latch onto — signalling some… annoyance, maybe? Annoyance at her stupidity, probably. It could've also been amusement, come to think of it. Amusement that Whitney would be so naive.

The weapon knew Whitney's name. They knew most things about her. The first time the tape had been removed from her mouth, she had word-vomited everything about her life to the weapon, because they weren't The Handler, and she hadn't yet known how closely affiliated the two of them were. She had asked for help, asked the weapon to call her family, to find her friends, to do anything, to help her escape this hellhole. She had learned, since then.

But she never gave up talking to the weapon. And it seemed like it was finally paying off, even if those four words were the only thing they'd end up saying during the time they had together.

"You really don't… have one?" Whitney asked, hissing when the weapon dabbed at a cut with a cotton ball seeped in disinfectant. "What does The Handler call you? Do they have a name?"

The weapon continued cleaning her up. They didn't say anything. Whitney didn't give up.

"You know, the more I see the two of you interact, the more I'm convinced you could take them in a fight. They seem… too relaxed. Like they're so sure of your loyalty. If you just whipped around one day with that dagger of yours in hand and slit their throat, I don't think they'd even have the time to look surprised."

The weapon didn't react. Whitney sighed.

"Well, just keep that in mind. I really think you could free both of us."

Whitney didn't want to think about why The Handler was so relaxed. What training the weapon had had to go through to become so loyal. Whether it was a bond that could even be broken. She didn't want to think about any of it. What she wanted to think about was a fairy tale ending, the weapon stabbing their handler in the throat repeatedly, leaving them to bleed out on the floor as they whisked her away to safety.

She furrowed her brows. What was this… odd feeling? She'd imagined this scenario before falling asleep a couple times before, but she'd never… she'd never imagined it with the weapon actually in the room with her. Nor had she ever verbalised it. And as she said the words, as she imagined the weapon's strong — very much capable of causing harm — arms gently lifting her in the air to bridal carry her out of her torture chamber, she felt something she'd never felt about the weapon before.

This was stupid.

She was stupid.

The weapon was loyal to The Handler, and this would never happen anyway. She just needed to suck it up and accept that this was her life now. Daily beatings, rare meals, four walls and a bucket to piss in. This was her life.

But she didn't want this to be her life. And her only ticket out was the weapon. Yes, she needed to stay pragmatic. All she wanted from the weapon was freedom. The weapon would surely get something in exchange — Whitney could make it up to them somehow. If they helped. But they wouldn't help if she stopped trying.

"Do you like The Handler?" she asked.

That got a reaction. A reaction she didn't expect. The weapon giggled. They seemed to immediately realise their mistake, stifling the sound halfway through, their emotionless mask firmly back in place. Whitney's heart skipped a beat as the sound.

Why?

Why, when all they did was hurt her?

Why was she feeling this way? Was she going insane? Was she being manipulated through the weapon patching her up every time? Was this what The Handler wanted? Was she playing into their hands by getting attached?

"So you don't," she concluded. The weapon stood up to leave. "Wait— Wait, please, stay just a little longer—"

The weapon didn't look back.

—

"I can't figure you out," Whitney said the next time The Handler left the room and left the two of them together: just her and the weapon. "After what must be weeks of captivity and not talking to me, you finally decided to tell me something. And now we're like, back to square one. And you won't say a thing. Do you hate me?"

The weapon was silent, working with quick and efficient fingers. They had given Whitney a lashing and broken skin. Whitney was still crying a little from the pain, but most of all, she just wanted to talk. She wanted a friend. She wanted someone who understood, even if that understanding came from the fact that they had been the one to inflict the pain.

"Do you enjoy doing this? Hurting me?"

The weapon didn't react. They just kept placing butterfly bandages across the open wounds.

"I don't think you do. Like, today… Today I could swear you hesitated. It was either lash eight or nine, I can't remember," she sniffled a little, "but you hesitated. The Handler told you to strike, and the pain didn't immediately come. You know, you get good at spotting these… these small things, and you build on them in your mind. When you're captive like this. You build whole fantasies. Like 'oh, maybe the weapon doesn't enjoy their job, maybe the weapon wants to get rid of The Handler as much as I do, maybe…'" She trailed off. Maybe what? Maybe the weapon sees her as an equal? Maybe the weapon sees her as a comrade in arms? Someone sharing their fate?

Someone to fall for?

Whitney hit herself in the forehead. Stupid. Idiot. Of course the weapon doesn't see her in that way. She doesn't even see them in that way. Right? This had to be some form of messed up Stockholm-syndrome, or whatever it was called.

"Do you hate me?" she asked again, quieter.

The question lingered. Whitney wasn't in a rush to talk more this time. She just wanted an answer. And the weapon had answered her once before.

"No," came their soft voice from behind her, and it felt like a caress on the cheek, a kiss to the top of her head. For someone so absolutely brutal to sound so gentle, it was like gasoline on the fire, it only fuelled Whitney's delusional fantasies.

"Do you hate The Handler?" she asked. She waited again, for minutes. The weapon remained silent. Maybe one answer per session was all she would get, all she deserved. Maybe that was enough.

The weapon finished patching her up and packed up the first-aid kit. They left the room, left Whitney, and the door slammed shut behind them, the lock sliding into place with a click.

It was infuriating, in a way. That the weapon refused to help her. If they didn't hate her, then why wouldn't they help? She'd pleaded, begged to be helped. She had debased herself so thoroughly that first time, she had wailed, wept, snot dripping down her chin, she had bowed to the ground, forehead against the floor, and rattled off the contacts of every one of her friends and family members. The weapon hadn't even reacted.

But then again, Whitney doubted she was the first one in The Handler's — and by extension the weapon's — clutches. They must've heard every variation of begging to be let go. They must've hardened with time, learned to tune out the sound of desperate sobbing. But surely, this wasn't the existence they wanted for themself. Surely, they wanted more. Something. Anything.

Whitney lay on the cold, cement floor, rubbing the bandages on her wrists. She wasn't in her usual chains anymore, but she'd had to be ziptied again after lunging at The Handler, and the wounds from thrashing against the restraints hadn't yet healed. It had been the weapon to pull the ziptie so tight. But not of their own volition; The Handler had inspected their work and told them to pull it tighter. And tighter. And tighter. Just enough not to cut off circulation, but enough to hurt.

The weapon had been the one to bandage her up after cutting them off, however. And they had been gentle.

She closed her eyes. Was there any point in fantasising? Probably not. But the images kept flashing through her mind, one after the other. The Handler on the floor, in a puddle of their own blood; dead. The weapon gently taking her by the hand and leading her out the door to freedom.

There were fantasies a little more realistic than that. Of the weapon gently bandaging her arm, then raising it to plant a kiss to the back of her hand. Or the weapon gently wiping her tears away. Or the weapon gently… gently, gently, gently, always gently, because they were always gentle when they didn't absolutely have to be cruel.

She drifted off to sleep.

—

"I get one answer a day, right? Don't answer that," Whitney said when she and the weapon were alone again. "I didn't get any answers before, but that must've been because I hadn't yet earned it. But I've been here a while, and one answer a day is what that earned me. So I'm going to think of something I really want to know. Not just something I blurt out in the heat of the moment."

The weapon didn't even look up at her. They just continued applying the burn cream onto the marks left by the cattle prod.

Oh yeah, The Handler had a cattle prod. Because of course they did.

"I tried thinking it up ahead of time. So I'd have it ready when you came, and when they left." She didn't even want to utter that stupid name they made her call them by. The Handler. Who did they think they were? Did they have no other personality trait other than the fact they had the weapon?

Whitney would've loved to be described by her relationship to the weapon.

But that was different.

"But I couldn't come up with what I wanted to know most. It's hard to think about what I want to talk to you about when you're not here."

The burn cream was gentle and cooling on her skin, and the weapon massaged it in with circular motions. As always, they were careful, never causing more harm than what they had been tasked with.

"Ah, I know. See? You just need to be here, and my brain works better." That sounded weird. "Not in a weird way. I… This situation is so stupid. It makes me say stupid stuff."

The weapon didn't react. In a way, they were the perfect blank canvas to throw ideas at, to see what stuck.

"Are there others?" she asked, holding her breath as she waited for an answer. There was, of course, no guarantee that the weapon would continue their streak of answering one question per day. It was just a stupid thing she had latched onto when it happened twice in a row. Still, it felt like their little pact. Their little agreement. A bond.

The weapon was silent.

Whitney slowly exhaled. She wouldn't get an answer today.

"Yes," the weapon said after minutes, and Whitney felt the colour drain from her cheeks.

There were others. The Handler had others. Were there only other captives, or other weapons as well? And where were they kept? They couldn't have been kept close, or Whitney would've heard their screams already. And the others would've heard her wailing. Or maybe the room was soundproof? Her thoughts were running a million miles an hour. There were others. There were others.

"We have to get them out," she whispered. The weapon continued massaging the cream into her arm. "We have to. You hear me? We have to get them out. You have to kill The Handler. Or help me do it. Though I… I don't know if I could. It'd really be best and most efficient if you were the one to do it— You've… I assume you've killed before."

Her one question a day was up, and the weapon didn't respond. Whitney tried feeling the adequate level of freaked out at that prospect, the fact that the weapon's hands were stained with the blood of innocents, but it was so hard when they were so gentle with her.

This is a ruthless killing machine, an instrument of torture, said the rational side of her brain.

They are our only means of comfort and potential escape, said the other.

"You've killed before," she breathed. "I won't even ask you. I know what you'd say. But I also know— I know you didn't want to. I know you don't want to be doing this. Right? Because you don't hate me. You don't have a reason to be doing any of this. It's The Handler that's a sick sadist, not you. You just… You're loyal. To a fault. I don't know why. Maybe you'll never tell me why. But I don't begrudge you for it."

The weapon finished treating her injuries and stood up. Without a word, they left her room — her cell — and went wherever it was that they stayed when they weren't in the cell with her.

Whitney wondered how big the building must've been. How many rooms, how many cells, how high, how low… There were no windows, so she could only assume she was underground. But she didn't know for sure. The only thing she ever saw of the world outside her cell was a long corridor, but she couldn't see whether it ended in stairs going up or down; or whether it ended in stairs at all.

She lay down, staring at the wall. The weapon didn't hate her. Did The Handler? Or were they also just doing a job? Were they also just a cog in the murder machine? If she killed them with the help of the weapon, would another handler crop up?

She didn't know. And as selfish as this was, she didn't want to find out what killing The Handler would feel like. She didn't even want to imagine it. She wanted to imagine the weapon doing it. Even if that meant she'd have to be here longer. Even if that meant the others would have to be here longer.

Heck, as selfish as this was, she didn't even really want to think of the others. She had asked, sure, but she… she didn't want to think about it. She wanted to put it out of her mind for good. She wanted to imagine she was the only one trapped here. With The Handler.

—

"Will I ever get out of here?" Whitney asked the next time she and the weapon were alone. They were suturing a jagged cut along her leg, without any pain medication, and Whitney had to just grit her teeth and get through it so she wouldn't bleed out.

It was strangely intimate, the whole ritual.

Or maybe she was starting to imagine things.

The weapon worked in silence, as usual. But Whitney knew the silence wouldn't last. They were likely just mulling the question over before giving an answer.

"No," they said eventually. Whitney nodded. That was what she'd expected.

"If I were to get out of here," she said, hissing when the needle tore through her flesh at yet another point, "I would take The Handler down with me. And I'd free the others. And I'd free any other weapon that was here as well. I'd free you."

There was the slightest hesitation in the weapon's fingers as they worked. The slightest of tremors, the slightest trembling. As though they didn't expect that. As if Whitney would ever think of leaving them behind.

After a minute or so, the weapon spoke, unexpectedly. "Why?"

Whitney was so taken aback, she almost forgot about the pain radiating from her thigh up into her entire body. "Why?" she repeated. The weapon glanced up at her before going back to doing their job, and it confirmed to Whitney that this really was something they were incredibly curious about. They never talked, never made eye-contact, so for them to have done both was… huge. "Why, because—" She cut herself off.

Silence stretched between them. The only thing breaking it up were Whitney's sharp inhales of pain.

"Because you matter," she settled on. "Because nobody deserves to have to hurt people. Nobody deserves this kind of life. You're caring, I can tell. I can tell that you hate doing this, even though you try to hide it. I can tell now. Because we've spent so much time together. I'd help you escape as well because I would never leave a… a friend behind."

The end was a little clumsy there. Whitney couldn't figure out the right label to put on their relationship. 'Friend' seemed safe. For now.

What was she thinking? 'Friends' were all they'd ever be, once they got out. And even while they were still here.

The weapon stopped working, needle still in hand. Their fingers were slick and bloody. They looked up at her this time, fully looked. They locked eyes.

Whitney had never really… She'd never really… Considered, or noticed, or…

The moment was over before she could've fully lost herself in their eyes. The weapon went back to stitching her up, and she let her head fall back, staring at the ceiling, gritting her teeth in pain. Just a few more stitches.

"I don't have friends," the weapon said quietly. Whispered, more like. "I hurt them. I always hurt them, in the end."

Whitney looked back down at them. Her thigh was stitched up, the weapon working on a knot now. How was she meant to explain that she didn't care? That they could hurt her all day, every day, for weeks, months on end, and she wouldn't care?

"You make the pain go away as well," she said equally quietly, afraid of shattering the moment with a careless word, a syllable uttered too loudly. "I know you don't want this. I don't consider this you hurting me. It's The Handler at fault. You must know that."

The weapon grabbed a piece of gauze and laid it on top of the freshly stitched-up wound. Then, she wrapped it in bandages. Whitney tried not to make a sound, knowing now how guilty the weapon felt about causing pain. A weapon, afraid and regretful of causing pain. That was no weapon at all. It was stupid that she had to keep referring to them like that in her head, just because The Handler had referred to them that way, and they didn't have a name to give to her.

In the end, the weapon didn't react. They simply packed up their supplies and left the cell, leaving Whitney alone with her thoughts. But they were getting somewhere. They were actually, truly getting somewhere.

Even if the weapon would never feel… the way she felt about them, they could be friends. Maybe she could eventually convince them that there was a world out there for them too, that they deserved a world free of pain and suffering and having to constantly grovel for harm they didn't intend to cause.

Whitney ran her fingers across the bandages, bottom to top. It was nicely done, snug but not painful. It hurt her heart to know the weapon must've done this hundreds of times in their short life. What age could they be, 25? 30 at most. Whitney was 24, and she didn't think the weapon was much older than her.

She would get them out of here, she pledged to herself. She would. Even if she had to take care of The Handler herself, she would get them out.

—

Days passed.

Whitney was starting to believe nobody would ever come to her cell again. She was parched, starving, and she wasn't sure how long she would be able to hold out.

Most of all, even more than water, she missed the weapon. She missed their gentle touch, their soft gaze that felt like being lost in an endless sea of care.

But soon, she got to know exactly why The Handler hadn't been down to her cell in the past days; when they threw open the door and shoved a barely alive weapon onto the floor in front of her. They were… unresponsive. They just fell like a sack of flour.

"What have you done?" she breathed.

"Want water?"

As if that was her priority. Well… It was, a little bit… She was really thirsty. It had been days.

The Handler dangled a bottle of fresh water in front of her. "All you have to do is get up and kick them. And it's all yours."

Whitney paled. She looked back down at the weapon. Their chest was just barely rising and falling with shallow breaths, and she didn't know what had happened, she didn't know why The Handler had done this to one of their assets, she was confused, and hurt, and scared—

It couldn't be that The Handler knew, could it?

But what was there to know, really? The weapon had said maybe a total of ten words to her. Glanced at her twice. Was that why? Was she the reason they were beaten black and blue, barely alive, not even conscious? No. No, that couldn't be.

But why else would The Handler make such a request?

"Oh, come on, they've hurt you plenty," they said, egging her on. "This is just a bit of revenge. And for a good reward, no less."

If she didn't get that bottle of water, she would die of dehydration. If she kicked the weapon… they might just die on her. Was it a her or them situation? Would she have to basically commit suicide to save them?

"You two really are lovebirds, aren't you?" The Handler taunted. They screwed the cap off the bottle and poured out some of the water onto the floor. Whitney immediately crawled over and started lapping it up like a dog. It was humiliating, but she didn't care. It felt heavenly on her parched tongue. "Why don't I show you how it's done?"

"No!" she screamed immediately, sitting back on her heels. "We're— Lovebirds? What are you on about? I just don't want to hurt someone who's already half-dead! Look at them!"

"Oh, I am looking," The Handler said, reeling their leg back and kicking the weapon in the ribs. Something cracked under their steel-toe boots. The weapon didn't even stir.

"Please!" she cried. "Don't! You're going to kill them!"

"Then get up, get over here, and kick them."

Was this how the weapon felt whenever they were made to hurt her? Surely not. Surely, the weapon didn't care half as much as her as she did them. Whitney's lower lip wobbled as she stifled a sob. She slowly got up and walked over, giving the weapon a half-hearted kick. More of a nudge in the side.

"That wasn't a kick. Do you want me to show you again?"

"No!" she snapped. The Handler grinned.

"Kick them."

Whitney closed her eyes and kicked the weapon, as hard as she could muster. Surely, that had to be enough. Surely.

"Put your heart into it," The Handler said, and when Whitney opened her eyes, she saw them reel back for another kick. Before she could think, she threw herself over the weapon's motionless body, shielding them with her own. The Handler's steel-toe boot connected with her arm, and she cried out. "Oh? So you don't want the water after all."

"Please," she begged. "Please, just leave them alone. We're not lovebirds, or whatever you think. The weapon has never done anything to deserve this. You're being pointlessly cruel."

"Am I?" They leaned down, grabbing Whitney by the hair and dragging her away from the weapon. They dragged her over to the corner of the cell, keeping her down on the ground with a boot to her chest. They reached into their pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, which they put over her face. Then, they started pouring the water over it.

Suddenly, Whitney couldn't breathe.

The water she was so gratefully lapping up just a minute ago was now used to drown her, and she was really drowning, she was dying, dying, dying—

The water stopped. It must've run out. The handkerchief was removed, and Whitney turned to her side, coughing up water, gasping for air.

"You try to pull this shit another time," The Handler said, leaning down, growling, "I will kill them, and I will kill you. Both of you are expandable. Don't take your place here for granted."

"Understood," she sputtered. "Understood. I'll never— never try anything. Please. Stop."

"Good. You're free to lick up the water. If—"

There was a sound of… A soft thud, a squelch. Before Whitney knew it, a body had fallen right next to hers. The Handler's body, with a knife sticking out the back of them. When she looked up, she saw the weapon standing over them. Then they knelt down, straddling The Handler and pulling out the blade, only to stab them again. And again. And again.

Blood was splattering everywhere. The weapon's blood was mixing with their handler's, and the water on the floor. Whitney watched in awe. The weapon had been unconscious a moment ago, or they were really good at faking. And now they were killing with an intensity they had never demonstrated when hurting her.

She couldn't think. She was still so thirsty. She leaned down and started lapping up the water, now mixed with blood, the taste of metal on her tongue. There wasn't much to lick up, but as much as there was, she licked up. Then, panting, she straightened up again. The weapon was panting as well, over the dead body of their handler.

They just stared at each other for a moment.

"You…" The weapon winced a little, the beating and whatever else their handler had done to them clearly still hurting. "Your lips, your…" They reached out, clumsily trying to wipe the bloody water off her lips. Whitney reached up and grabbed their wrist, holding their hand there.

"What have they done to you?"

"Doesn't matter."

"It does. To me."

The weapon couldn't respond. Their eyes rolled back, the adrenaline probably wearing off, and they slumped against Whitney's body. She stayed like that, cradling them, until they came to again.

"Whitney?" they whispered.

"I'm here," she whispered back. "I'm here."

The door of the cell was still open, but Whitney hadn't even thought of leaving without the weapon.

The weapon slowly pushed themself up, looking her in the eye. Neither of them looked away this time. There was no reason to be secretive — The Handler's dead body was proof enough that they were safe, if only for the time being.

She leaned in.

The weapon didn't pull away.

Their kiss tasted like copper.

"I'm sorry," the weapon said.

"I'm sorry, too," Whitney replied.

"Can we… Can we really just go now?"

"Yeah. Let's… Let's go."

~

Whumpee squirmed in their seat. Whumper had written everything they did to them down in a journal. Whumpee knew it existed, but they never got the chance to read it. Never got the chance to read the things they'd gone through from Whumper's sick perspective.

"Did you read it?" they asked quietly.

Leader shook their head. "The team agreed to leave it untouched."

"Can… Can I read it?"

Leader raised an eyebrow. "You must know what's in there. And wouldn't it trigger you?"

"I want to read it. If that's possible."

"I mean…"

"Please."

Leader sighed. "It's your prerogative." They took out a key from their pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer, pulling out a beat-up looking notebook. They handed it to Whumpee. "Just be careful."

"I will be. Thank you."

Monday, June 8th

I broke Whumpee's arm today. The sound was almost comical, the little pop as it gave way. It sounded like the way I would've imagined a bone breaking to sound. Whumpee was hysterical about it, talking about how it wouldn't heal right and how they wouldn't be able to go back to their duties once they finally escaped or were rescued. They don't know I've hidden them well-enough not to be rescued by the team. Do they think I don't know others are looking for them?

Tuesday, June 9th

Whumpee keeps crying about their arm. I gave them extra rations today to shut them up, but it didn't work. Sometimes they can be such a whiny bitch. But I picked my target right. They're a pretty crier. And useless without their team.

Wednesday, June 10th

The urge to rape them is ever-increasing. I can't do anything about it, they just look so pretty on my basement floor, all black and blue…

Whumpee shut the journal. They were breathing heavily, panting almost, like they'd run a marathon. Whumper never raped them. They had no idea the sick piece of crap even had these thoughts. Sure, their gaze might've lingered on Whumpee's starved form for a little longer than was comfortable, but with everything going on, Whumpee didn't even consider…

It was fine. They were out. Whumper was gone. And the team would never read this journal.

—

"Whumpee, can we talk?" Caretaker asked the next day. Whumpee found it strange how jittery they were, but they agreed. They were best friends, after all.

"Sure, about what?"

Caretaker was hiding something behind their back, and Whumpee assumed it would be a small present or something. Like a welcome-home gift. But when Caretaker pulled the thing from behind their back, Whumpee felt their heart sink.

It was the journal.

The journal that was supposed to be under their mattress.

"I heard Leader say they gave it to you. And I had to know— I had to—"

Whumpee snatched it out of their hand, cradling it close to their chest. "What is wrong with you?" they whispered. This was their best friend. Had been, up until this point.

"I just had to know. Whumpee, I'm so sorry for what they did to—"

"I'm going now."

Caretaker moved to block the exit. "Whumpee, we need to talk about this."

"Get out of my way."

"You can't carry this burden alone."

"So you took it upon yourself to try and share it."

"I had to know!"

"No, you didn't have to!" Whumpee snapped. "You absolutely didn't have to! You all agreed not to read it, you didn't just go against me, you went against everybody! You should be kicked off the team for this! I— I hate you!"

Caretaker froze at the words. "You're just worked up right now," they tried.

"Yes I'm worked up! You read the journal! I hate you! I hate that you betrayed me like that! Get out of my way!" they shoved past Caretaker, journal still in hand, and went straight to Leader's room. Caretaker was following them closely. "Leader," they said, barging in without knocking. "Caretaker read it."

"I knew Whumpee would never talk about it if it were up to them!" Caretaker, who had followed them inside, said in their defence. "Surely, you didn't intend on just keeping the journal and never even reading a page!"

"You did what?" Leader asked, and Whumpee was quite satisfied with the level of rage in their voice.

"I had to know," Caretaker tried timidly, the same stupid excuse they'd given Whumpee.

"Get out. Right now."

"But Leader—"

"Get out."

Caretaker pursed their lips. They left without another word. Leader closed the door behind them. "Whumpee, I'm so sorry. If I'd known—"

"It's fine," they forced themself to say. "I didn't know Caretaker was this type of person either."

"I truly am sorry. You… can't really take that back."

Now they know.

"I want them kicked off the team," Whumpee said. The words felt like sand in their mouth.

"I understand you're upset—"

"I want them kicked off. Right now. Go after them and tell them they're not welcome here anymore."

"Whumpee, I'm upset as well. But let's sleep on this at least once."

"They read the journal."

"I understand. And I will take appropriate disciplinary actions—"

"I want them kicked off."

Leader sighed. "Whumpee… You would regret that tomorrow."

"It's either me or them. I can't work with them any longer. If you keep them, you lose me."

"You can't be serious."

"I am very serious."

Whumpee knew this was risky. They were still recovering from torture, had PTSD to boot, while Caretaker was a full, contributing member of the team, able to go on missions. By all accounts, if Leader was forced to choose like this, they should've chosen Caretaker. The rejection would hurt, but honestly… maybe Whumpee did want to get kicked off. After what had happened with Whumper, they'd come back, but they didn't really feel like… they could ever go on missions again.

"Whumpee, let's sleep on it," Leader tried again, and Whumpee made their choice then and there.

"So you choose them."

"No—"

"I'm leaving."

"Whumpee—"

"And I'm taking the journal." With that, they turned and walked out. They found Caretaker standing a few feet from the door, not strictly eavesdropping, but definitely a bit close for comfort. "What do you want?"

"I just wanted to apologise again—"

"Save it. I'm leaving."

Caretaker's eyes widened. "What?"

"I'm not working with you. And Leader chose you — be happy."

"Whumpee—"

"Save it."

"But—"

Oh. There it was.

Over the course of the night, with the aid of whiskey, Sonny had successfully pushed from his mind what he remembered of that interaction up until just now, and would have been perfectly happy to leave it unaddressed. It took every modicum of his control to prevent his face from morphing in a way that might reveal some particular emotion. The mask didn’t matter, however, because when he opened his eyes Port was still not looking at him.

“I love you,” he said by way of response. It was not what he had intended to come out of his mouth, even if it was the truth.

Port finally shifted, no longer stone, twisting and pushing himself up onto his elbow. Sonny thought his brown eyes were beautiful, even in the dark, in a way that made him want to simultaneously shy away from the eye contact and keep staring into them forever. There was a furrow between Port’s pale brows. “I love you, too,” he said. 

There was no hesitation in his words. For some reason Sonny was surprised by how unflinchingly he said it, even if it wasn’t the first time he’d heard it from him— but never so blatantly, never face-to-face like this. Only ever in the dead of night, Port’s lips pressed to his hair or near his ear, whispered in soft or scary moments. He’d figured Port might find it difficult to say in any other context.

“Okay,” Sonny said.

Port sat up fully and interlaced his fingers in his lap. One of his thumbs brushed over the other, running along the fingernail. Sonny could not see too well from this angle or in the darkness, but he knew from every past sneaking glance at Port’s nimble hands that the nail was warped, like dented sheet metal or the rippling surface of a pond. 

“I’ve been thinking about the files,” Port said.

It took Sonny a moment to realize what he was referring to, with the sudden non-sequitur. Those redacted documents. Port hadn’t seemed very interested at all two days ago. At this point, Sonny was done with them, too. “What about them?”

“I think… I get why you wanna know more about who you are.”

Sonny shook his head minutely, listening to the soft scratching sound of his hair rubbing against the cotton pillowcase. “I don’t care anymore,” Sonny said. “I decided I don’t want to know.”

Port stopped rubbing at his thumbnail. “Really? Why?”

Sonny turned his face away, frustrated. He had not intended to continue thinking about this at all, let alone put it to words for Port’s benefit. Sonny cursed his stupid fucking immune system and his own self and every single circumstance that had led up to this moment. “Yesterday…” he said through his teeth, “…in the bathroom, it brought up some shit I don’t really wanna think about. I don’t wanna look back at all, including anything in those files. I’m done with all of it.” 

When Sonny turned back, Port was looking slightly pained, some discomforted emotion pulling at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were very still, aimed at some spot on the blanket, as he looked for words to say. “Did… did you know who I was?” he asked.

Fucking embarrassing. Sonny pressed his palm to his forehead, fingers in his bangs, and groaned. “Forget it happened.”

“Did you?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s all fuzzy.” He felt a little fuzzy right now, like he might dissolve into the bedsheets. 

Port rubbed at the back of his neck, over the delicate collar. “Y’know, family… has been on my mind, lately,” he said haltingly. “And I just feel like I should tell you… You’re family to me.” The look he was giving Sonny was something a little wide-eyed, a frightened sort of sincerity.

Sonny didn’t want to look at it. He brought his other hand to his face and pressed both palms to his eyes, scoffing. “Do you always have to talk around things like this?” The pressure had stars exploding behind his eyelids. “Just say what you really wanna say.”

Quiet. Darkness. “Did you mean to, uh, lick me?”

Sonny nearly laughed. Only Port would word it like that. 

It was something he’d wanted to do many times before, in moments tantalizingly close to Port’s bare skin, restrained only by his sense. When he was sick, he’d had none. Right now, Sonny thought he might still have none. And even though he hadn’t really known whose neck he was pressing his tongue to at the time, it did not matter. It was not the real question Port was trying to ask. “Yes,” he said.

Port did not respond to that. Sonny told himself he would simply lay in the silence and force Port to say something if he truly wanted to talk it out. He wondered if Port was mulling over his words right now, eyes still and focused in the way they were whenever he was calculating a response, trying to decide on a way to let him down easy. He could not help but imagine the way Port might be looking at him— as he hid behind his hands in a way that now seemed pathetic rather than resolute— perhaps with pity or apprehension or disgust.

His resolve for silence did not last even a minute. “I’m not your little brother,” Sonny said, even if it sometimes felt that way and he didn’t always hate it. “I feel like you put me in this box. You put me in this box and you refuse to see me any other way. And you think I’m, like, incompetent and… and immature.” The words were spilling out of his mouth.

“I—“ Port sounded weak. “I just don’t know where this is coming from.”

Sonny injected as much incredulity into his voice as he could manage. “You had no idea?”

Port’s voice was suddenly a little bolder, words a little quicker. “I mean, do you really think that would be good for us? Really?” 

Sonny was brave enough to pull his hands away and open his eyes. He set his jaw and fixed Port with a look he hoped came across as angry rather than ashamed, swallowing hard, fearing the bob of his throat was too obvious. Port’s look in return was something akin to wariness, nervous wrinkles under his eyes. “I don’t think you actually want me like that, Sonny.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Don’t tell me what I want.”

“I’m all you had, and you’re all I had, for— what— eight months? I’ve been the only person around for you to… to put those feelings on.”

“For god’s sake, stop talking.”

“You’re just starved for—“

“Shut up!”

“—for that sort of stuff. You’re a romantic sort of person…” Port had started to drawl out his words, and his eyes could not stick to a single spot for more than a few seconds, rolling all over the room— landing everywhere except on Sonny. “…and I think you’re misinterpreting your love for me.” 

Sonny could feel the heat rising to his face and sweeping over his entire body like a fiery alcohol flush. He burned. He could imagine too well the thought going through Port’s head: This stupid child doesn’t know what he wants. Sonny remembered they were not alone in the house and had the restraint not to raise his voice. “What the fuck are you talking about?” he hissed.

Port’s eyes steadied, looking down at him, and Sonny realized it was ridiculous to be laying flat on his back having this conversation. He sat up, rising to Port’s level. 

“I’m not trying to put words in your mouth,” Port said, shrinking away. “I just…”

He did not care for whatever stupid explanation Port would try to give. “Why did you even bring this up in the first place?” he asked, throwing his hands up. “What are you getting out of it? Do you get hard to the thought of humiliating me?”

Something cracked in Port’s expression, then. Sonny could not stop himself from continuing.

“You want me to answer your question? No, I don’t think it would be a good thing for us. Which is why I’ve never fucking brought it up before!” His hands balled into fists. “I was sick, man. I wasn’t thinking when I did it. And if you’re really as oblivious as you say you are, you never, ever would’ve known, because I was never going to bring it up.” 

Port just stared at him, mouth shut.

“Are you happy we’re talking about this? Is this making you feel better? Is this conversation productive to you?”

Port’s wide eyes dropped to his lap at the same time his hand rose to his temple. He looked heavy in every limb of his body. “I… thought it would fester,” he said quietly.

“You’re the one who was making it awkward,” Sonny snapped. “You refused to look at me.”

Port’s eyes squeezed shut, pained. The skin of his forehead dimpled as he pressed his fingers there. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, and despite himself Sonny found some of his frustration melting away at the sad sight before him. “I’m sorry,” Port repeated. “I was nervous. And I— I scared you real bad. I really messed up. I’m just… awful,” he finished weakly.

This switch in his demeanor— the evaporation of all that condescending self-superiority— really took the wind out of Sonny's sails. He no longer wanted to shout at him or insult him until he broke and admitted to the ways he was hurting him. “What the hell are you talking about?” Sonny asked.

Port stared blankly into his lap. “I’m a terrible person, Sonny. I just lie to you and upset you.” His words had a flat affect to them, like he was reading from a script. Like it was something he’d gone over in his head so much he had lost all the emotion behind it. “I’m even doing it now. I… I deserve…” he trailed off. 

His admittance of his faults was not at all satisfying, nor did it ring as true as Sonny had expected it to. “Stop,” he said. He felt bad, and at the same time, he was angry at Port for making him feel bad.

“Sometimes I wish we never met, for your sake.” Port’s voice was quiet. “You’d be happier.” 

That sent a stake straight through his heart. “Jesus. Stop it. This is—“ hurting me. No. That was not the right thing to say to him right now. “That’s not true,” he said. “You’re the most important person in the world to me.”

Port was silent for a moment. “I feel the same,” he replied. His eyes lifted, hesitatingly, to meet Sonny’s. In all their guilt, they were still beautiful. 

Sonny had told himself he wouldn’t try anything. He had told himself he would not try to take whatever his feelings were for Port any further. But, of course, leave it to himself to get sick and drunk and stupid and smash open the bottle he had worked so hard to stuff everything inside. “Is it really so impossible for you to see me that way?” he asked, against all better judgement. 

Port’s eyes dimmed a little, brows ever-so-slightly lowering on his forehead. “Still hoping?”

“…I’m drunk.”

“I know.”

“I just… can’t help but wonder what it would be like,” Sonny admitted quietly. 

Port tilted his head almost imperceptibly, face turning a little contemplative. 

Sonny did not want to be subject to whatever was going through his mind. He laid back down, head on the soft pillow. “I’m going to sleep,” he announced, though he did not pull the covers up and did not close his eyes. His lidded gaze ran along the blades of the ceiling fan.

Port was unmoving for some time. Perhaps a few minutes passed where he simply sat there, Sonny sensing his stare.

Then he shifted. The mattress beneath Sonny dipped lower as Port’s weight moved closer to him, two points of depression joining into one. Sonny could feel his own eyes going wide and bewildered as Port’s arm carefully and deliberately swung over him, hand landing by his other side. Sonny glanced to his lean forearm, then up to his face. It hovered above him, expression unreadable. His wavy hair hung down from his forehead and over his ears. 

The last time someone had leered over him like this, he’d been choked to unconsciousness. The memory rose to his mind unbidden and unwelcome, but Port did not seem so sinister. In fact, Sonny had imagined being in this position so many times it was downright surreal. He could not be sure he wasn’t dreaming.

Port’s face dropped lower. Sonny stopped breathing. He blinked at Port’s upturned nose, almost afraid to look him in the eye. He could smell the mint off him, feel his soft breath. Port was so close that Sonny could count each freckle on his cheek, if he wanted. There was the scantest layer of air between their faces, and Sonny would only have to lift a few inches, and then their lips would be touching.

So that’s what he did. Port met him halfway. And then they were kissing. 

...If it could even be called that. It was little more than a chaste, dry press, closed mouth to closed mouth. Port’s eyes were shut. Sonny observed his pale eyelashes, and the slightest twitch in his eyelid, and then Port was pulling away. It had lasted maybe a single second.

Port’s face was still quite close, brow furrowed. They stared at each other for a moment. Sonny felt like a weight was pressing his chest into the bed and at the same time like he might simply float away, or just spin forever and ever the same way he did when he closed his eyes.

It had been too quick. He’d lifted his head on such instinct and suffered such shock that he had not had the chance to savor the moment. He needed to try it again. He gently placed his hands on either side of Port’s head, over his stick-out ears and soft hair, and pulled him back in. 

Sonny tried to really focus on the feeling of Port’s warm mouth against his, focus on the heat radiating off his skin and the sheer sensation of what it was like to have this man leaned over him with his palms pressing into the mattress on either side of him.

It was not as he'd pictured this moment. Despite how many times he had imagined Port like this, and in ways more illicit than this, it suddenly felt too vulgar to try anything more. In all of his prevailing chasteness, and his still unmoving lips, Sonny could not bring himself to try and coax Port's mouth open or let his hands wander anywhere else. Something about it would feel corruptive.

He loosened his grip on Port’s face and gently pushed his head away to signal that he was done. Port straightened his arms so that he was no longer so close to Sonny’s face. Brow still knit, his eyes fluttered open. They were intensely pensive. 

“Did that satisfy you?” Port asked, after a moment. 

“Why did you do that?” Sonny asked. It was a genuine question.

“I wanted to see if…” His eyes slid away as he trailed off, aborting the thought. His head hung lower from his shoulders and he shook it side to side, hair swaying gently. “I don’t know.”

A non-answer. Absurdly, Sonny found himself endeared by such a Port-like response, even as it pained him.

“Did it feel right to you?” Port asked. 

Sonny hesitated, even as he knew his answer immediately. “No.”

“Okay,” Port said, with some sense of finality. "There you have it.” 

He removed himself from Sonny’s space and sat back so that he was no longer on his hands and knees. His expression was difficult to read. Sonny felt bruised.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Port muttered.

It had been so much more alluring in fantasy, without all these strange strings attached. Sonny wondered if they might be better off if this had never happened at all. It was too fresh to tell. Would it really have rotted within him? Would he have been haunted by the question: What could have been, had I tried? 

“No, it’s okay,” Sonny said, even though he still had not decided if it was the truth or not. “I think it was a good experiment.” Maybe this confirmation of his doubts would allow him to forget about it for good. “So can we move on from this, now? No more hang-ups?”

There was the subtle bob of Port’s head. The noncommittal response was not satisfying to him. “I’m serious,” Sonny said. “I don’t want you to kill yourself feeling guilty about it. And don’t feel guilty about what happened yesterday, either. I want us to go back to how we were. Before…” He swept his hand through the air. At everything. “…all this.” He was pleading.

Port nodded more deeply. “That would be nice.”

Sonny did not like that answer, but he simply lifted his arms to interlace his fingers behind his head and inhaled deeply, filling his chest with air. He pinched his elbows inwards so they covered his ears and acted like blinders, imagining what it would be like to squeeze so hard that his eyeballs popped out of his skull. He exhaled. A sigh. 

He shifted his legs under the blanket and pulled it up to his collarbone. “I’m actually going to go to sleep now,” he said, still spinning. But he knew he would not sleep. He would lie awake and replay the moment over and over again behind his eyelids, even as it sickened him.

"Okay," Port said. "Goodnight."

♤♢♧♡♧♢♤

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"S-Sorry," they stammered.

"Caretaker this, Caretaker that, do this, say that, I'm tired. Why can't you just shut up, like in the earlier days?"

The... earlier days? When they were a scared, shaking mess in the corner of their bedroom, afraid to utter a word, lest they be beaten for it?

Caretaker preferred that?

"What do you mean?" they asked quietly, hoping Caretaker would clarify. But they doubled down instead.

"You were so quiet, so agreeable, I didn't have to listen to you blabber on and on about stupid shit. Now all you do is talk and talk and talk. Shut up."

Whumpee felt like they had been punched. Repeatedly. In the face.

They had been getting better, that was why they talked more. They felt safe around Caretaker. They hadn't even considered that Caretaker was that fed up with them.

They didn't respond. They just stood up and went back to their room, to be alone, to not disturb anybody.

They could be quiet again. They could go back to being well-behaved.

Whumper had been right. They had made Whumpee better by 'training them'.

More staring. More stammering. You can't bear to look at Freddie. But she's asking so sincerely, there's no way you can deny her. She has a right to know, anyway. She's in danger.

But how can you tell her without telling on everyone in the facility?

"Back at home," you start slowly, carefully, "I had a sort of... mother-figure." Okay, not bad. Believable. True, in a way. "She was... strict. She didn't want me wandering outside, or making friends, or..."

"Not a very good mother-figure," Freddie interjects.

"She was! She was. She had her reasons. Anyway, in the dream, she... found out you took me in. And she wasn't happy."

"Mmm."

You risk a glance up at her. She seems to be deep in thought.

"So... Okay, so... Hm. Your name is #064. You don't seem to be mentioning a real mother, but a mother-figure. And I'm fairly sure you just confirmed you lived in that awful facility."

Have you really given away so much already? Oh dear. Oh no. "No, home, home is a different place—" you try, you fumble, but she sees right through you.

"It's okay," she says. She smiles. "I'm not judging."

She definitely is.

But that's not the worst part. You are giving away the game. You are giving away vital secrets of the organisation. You are being a traitor.

"Why are you even so interested in the facility?" you ask quietly. She never told you why. She just showed up, started asking questions, bribed you with a salami sandwich and a warm bed, and now you are here. Telling her about the facility. Like an idiot.

She takes a bite of her sandwich. You don't touch yours. Your appetite is long gone, replaced by anxiety.

"One time, I saw them kidnap a child," she says easily.

But that's... not right. The facility doesn't kidnap people. They take in orphans. Give them three meals a day and a bed, and to repay that kindness, you and the others try to be good at what the facility teaches you. #065 and the others, they were all orphans. No family. No name. No nothing. Your handler has told you the story several times: you were abandoned in the hospital, your mother never claiming you. You've never heard of anyone being kidnapped.

"That's not... That's absurd."

"Unmarked van, two women in all-black clothing, snatched up the kid like it was nothing. I called the police — they were wildly unhelpful. I ran after the van as long as I could, to see where they'd take the kid. I only had to run two streets down. Van passed through a gate to the back of the facility."

"That can't be right."

She takes another bite. Still so nonchalant. Like this doesn't even faze her. Even if it were true— no, especially if it were true, she should be freaking out about it.

"Saw it with my own two eyes," she says, not bothered by you not believing her.

"Why are you so calm, if you think there's a facility in town that kidnaps children and trains them to be—"

You cut yourself off. Idiot. Stupid. You almost said it out loud.

"Trains them to be what?"

"Ah..." You scramble for a word. "Self-sufficient."

She gives you a sceptical look, but doesn't press you on it. "Because I finally have someone who can help me bring the whole thing down," she says.

Oh.

Is that supposed to be... you? You're the thing that'll bring the facility down?

"But you're wrong," you insist. "They wouldn't kidnap people."

"How did you end up in there?"

"I'm an orphan. They took me in. That's what they do."

"So it's an orphanage. Why didn't they give you a name?"

You shouldn't have told her your name.

"#064 is my name."

"What's up with the prosthetics?"

"Ah..."

"And why did they kick you out with injuries that would make a grown man bed-bound for a week?"

You can't answer all these questions. Your head hurts. Freddie seemed so happy-go-lucky at first, so soft, so affable, but now she's staring you down like you really are her golden ticket.

"I... I..." You don't know what to say.

"Oh, look at the time. I'm gonna be late." She gives you another smile, like nothing happened. "Finish your breakfast. I'll be back by five." She stands and puts her plate in the sink. "Make yourself at home while I'm not here!"

With that, she leaves.

~