living weapon whumpee bites down hard on the belt in their mouth, the leather tasting awful. handler tersely sews their wound up, each nick of the needle almost imperceptible over the rush of blood in their ears and the hate welling inside them like a bomb waiting to go off.
as they cut the thread off, handler orders, "all done. get in the car," as they remove the belt from whumpee's mouth. without giving it any thought, a "no," slips out, obstinate and clipped. whumpee keeps their head turned away.
their failure plays like a video on loop in their head, over and over and over again. their hesitation cost hundreds of innocent people their lives. it's not fair.
"get in the car," handler repeats themself. steel underlines their tone, danger boiling beneath the surface.
when whumpee fails to comply in the stipulated five second period, they find themself pressed against the hood of the car, the metal digging into their freshly stitched wound. "whatever punishment you are seeking," handler hisses in their ear, sharp like a razor, "your superiors are itching to grant it. in fact, I'll be damned if you will be able to recite your own code once they are done with you. now get in the bloody car."
tears slip down whumpee's face, a steady chant of weak, weak, weak echoing in their head as they climb in it. they know that handler's right. they'll be screaming themself hoarse— if that will be allowed— by the end of today.
all the same, this harrowing guilt is a punishment unlike any, more painful and potent than anything their superiors could inflict.
