Did you know laughing during inappropriate times is a trauma response? Or so my therapist tells me. Old enough but not old. She/Her. Cares too much about everyone even random citizens. Into whump-ishy stuff and writing. Medical Whump is life.
this year's prompts were sourced through an open suggestion form, where over 6,000 prompts were submitted. after, the best 100 prompts were voted on in a poll which received 6,265 votes. the top 28 were rearranged into the 28 prompts of febuwhump - with the most voted prompt in the number 1 position ("I like you better broken", 1,959 votes) - while the alternate prompts were selected from the mod's personal favourites of the remaining options.
this is such a great list of prompts, and i'm so excited to see what creativity they spark with you!
if you're interested in taking part in all the facets of febuwhump, then check out the expected timeline for this year's event! pay special attention to march 6-8, after febuwhump, in which everyone is encouraged to comment on as many febuwhump works as possible to ensure that everyone leaves this event with encouraging feedback on their creations!
as always, please check the faq or scroll through the previously asked questions before asking questions. i know the faq is short, but it really does answer just about any questions you have. when in doubt, assume the answer is that you can do literally anything you want.
please note: notifying the blog of completionist status will happen through a google form released towards the end of febuwhump, and if you are interested in joining the febuwhmp discord server, the link will be available to do so for one week during january.
full write-up of prompts and rules under the cut:
FEBUWHUMP 2026 PROMPTS:
DAY 1: "I like you better broken"
DAY 2: old injury
DAY 3: ghost
DAY 4: blood stains
DAY 5: survivor
DAY 6: soul bond
DAY 7: forced to hurt another
DAY 8: hunger
DAY 9: false memory
DAY 10: god complex
DAY 11: broken fingers
DAY 12: bodyguard
DAY 13: "again"
DAY 14: hanahaki disease
DAY 15: test subject
DAY 16: touch aversion
DAY 17: fingers in the wound
DAY 18: time loop
DAY 19: "I didn't mean to"
DAY 20: hunted
DAY 21: flashbacks
DAY 22: worse than death
DAY 23: kintsugi
DAY 24: head injury
DAY 25: medical restraints
DAY 26: time travel
DAY 27: "can you stay?"
DAY 28: breaking point
ALTERNATE PROMPTS:
ALT 1: environmental whump
ALT 2: pregnancy
ALT 3: alternate universe
ALT 4: lazarus
ALT 5: auction
ALT 6: live broadcast
ALT 7: the devil you know
ALT 8: child soldier
ALT 9: you would have loved this
ALT 10: flu
RULES
soft rules:
prompts should be answered in the form of whump
creators can produce any kind of media they want
you don't have to complete all the prompts to take part
you can use the prompts after the event ends
you can complete the prompts in tandem with any other event
you can post to any platform you want, however this blog will only be sharing links and prompt fills posted to tumblr
if you want to be featured on the hall of fame, you must inform this blog by the 3rd of march that you have completed all of the days using the provided form
if you have questions, consult the faq before asking
hard rules:
to be a completionist, you must complete all 28 prompts, in order, in whatever medium you want, before the end of the event
(specifically for being featured on the blog)
when uploading febuwhump content to tumblr, please use the tags:
febuwhump (or febuwhump2026)
the relevant day's tag e.g. febuwhumpday1, febuwhumpday2...
nsfw (if relevant)
any important trigger warnings
you can also tag the blog: @febuwhump
I cannot guarantee your work will be archived on the blog. a random selection of properly tagged works will be reblogged every day of february
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Whumpee was once a very outgoing, talkative, friendly person.
Now, they're anxious and quiet, and people who used to see Whumpee always happy, always at ease, people who loved him for that, can't stand being around this new version of him.
Quiet. Stressed out. Broken.
One day, Whumpee feels down and realizes there's really no person left to call.
whumpee and caretaker were a lovely pair but after whumper happened whumpee no longer has feelings for caretaker but can't tell them in fear of being alone and left at the mercy of whumper.
words of inspo for people who don't got anyone: love is a friend, hate is a couple.
dying/critically injured whumpee takes in a big ragged breath, wheezes it out, and then falls silent. caretaker strokes their hair and waits. when whumpee breathes in again, caretaker is torn between being relieved that they're still alive.... and devastated that they're still in pain.
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I think I’m literally never gonna be sick of this masterpiece. I think watching it on a loop for eight hours could fix me. Dancing’s what clears my soul. Dancing’s what makes me whole.
Rook is perched, stiff and unsure, on the edge of the couch. Their hands lie folded on their lap like they’re waiting to be interviewed—like the wrong gesture might prove they don’t belong in their own living room.
The apartment is quiet in the way Daveed has learned to engineer: plants breathing softly, wards stitched into the window frames as a low, steady hum, the city’s noise filtered down to something distant and survivable. The air smells faintly of soil and candlewax and clean laundry. It’s home. It’s supposed to be home.
A knock sounds at the door.
Rook’s nerves spike so fast it’s almost nauseating. Curiosity tangles with anxiety, anxiety spurred on by a sharp fear of disappointing people they can’t remember. Their shoulders lift instinctively—an old habit of tucking wings close that aren’t there anymore. The phantom ache at their shoulder blades flares like an echo.
Daveed pauses midstep on his way to the kitchen and turns back immediately. His empathy brushes the edge of Rook’s fear—bright, jagged—and he softens his whole presence like he’s stepping into a room with a skittish animal.
“It’s okay,” he says gently. “They’re our friends. They’re not expecting anything from me… or you.”
Rook nods anyway, squaring their shoulders with a kind of grim determination. “I know. I just… want to get it right.”
Daveed’s mouth curves, affection aching in his face like he wants to cross the room and kiss the tension out of them. He doesn’t. He chooses steadiness instead, and goes to the door.
When he opens it, Stara breezes in without waiting for an invitation.
Her pink skin glows faintly under the apartment lights. Powder-puff blue hair is piled messily on her head like she did it with one hand while holding a scalpel in the other. Freckles scatter across her cheeks like spilled stars, and her heart-shaped tail sways as she takes in the room with a critical, professional eye.
“Well,” she announces, hands on her hips, “you’re upright, breathing, and not actively leaking ichor. Ten out of ten, Daveed. Stellar not-dying today.”
Daveed snorts. “You love me.”
“I tolerate you,” Stara corrects, already drifting toward the kitchen like she owns the place. “I love you when you’re not making me regret my license.”
Behind her comes Madison—dark, curly hair falling down her back in loose coils, eyes sharp as blades, posture like she’s ready to fight a hurricane on principle. She crosses the threshold and immediately grabs Daveed by the front of his shirt like she’s about to shake him.
“You absolute bastard,” she snaps. “Do you have any idea what you put us through?”
Daveed laughs, half defensive, half relieved, and wraps his arms around her anyway. “Hey, Mads.”
She squeezes him hard enough to be a warning, then pulls back just long enough to smack his shoulder. Not a punch—just enough force to make her point.
“Don’t ‘hey’ me,” she says, voice tight. “You disappear into your own head and you make me do math about worst-case outcomes and—”
Nyx slips in behind her and closes the door with her heel.
Nyx’s charcoal-gray skin holds a warm sheen beneath the ash-dark hue, silver freckles dusted across her cheekbones like someone laid starlight there on purpose. One side of her head is shaved close; the other is braided back in thick, neat rows that fall over one shoulder. She wears colors that refuse to apologize and rings on nearly every finger—metal clinking softly when she lifts her hand in a small wave.
Her batlike wings aren’t spread—just a subtle shadow of their presence in the way she holds her shoulders, in the quiet confidence of someone who takes up space without asking permission.
Nyx looks at Daveed first, eyes narrowing with amused appraisal. “You look disgusting,” she says affectionately.
“Thank you,” Daveed replies.
Nyx’s gaze slides past him and lands on Rook.
The shift in her expression is small but unmistakable—like a door opening.
Not pity. Not caution. Just… recognition of someone important.
Rook’s breath catches. Their folded hands tighten, then loosen again, as if they’re trying to remember what to do with them.
Stara, mid-stride, turns and sees where Nyx is looking. Her whole demeanor changes—professional sharpness softening at the edges. She slows, hands visible, voice gentler.
“Hey,” she says. And then, out of habit more than thought: “Angel—”
Rook stiffens.
Stara catches it instantly and winces. “—sorry,” she adds immediately. “Habit. Hi. I’m Stara. We already met.”
Rook blinks, startled by the apology. Heaven wasn’t big on apologies. “Rook,” they manage. “I think.”
Stara’s mouth twitches into a grin, relief flashing through her like a checkmark on an internal list. “Good. Good to have you back. I’m the one who stitched your idiot husband back together more times than I can count.”
Daveed groans. “We’re starting with slander?”
“It’s not slander if it’s charted,” Stara shoots back, and then her eyes flick—brief and sharp—to Rook again, like she’s making sure she didn’t push too hard.
Madison turns.
And freezes.
Her eyes land on Rook like she’s seeing a ghost she’s been refusing to name.
“…Oh,” Madison breathes.
Rook straightens instinctively, anxiety spiking so hard Daveed feels it through his own ribs. He takes a slow breath, keeps his body loose, makes himself an anchor instead of a mirror.
Madison steps closer slowly, like she’s approaching something fragile. Her voice drops into a quiet Daveed rarely hears from her.
“You’re really here,” she says.
“I… um.” Rook swallows. “I am.” Their eyes flick down, then up again. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember you.”
Madison’s throat bobs. Her smile wobbles, but it’s there—bright and determined. “That’s okay,” she says. “I remember you enough for both of us. I was the best man and maid of honor at your wedding and if you ever want embarrassing stories—”
“They don’t,” Daveed says immediately.
Madison ignores him with the ease of lifelong practice. She offers her hand. “Madison. His twin. The smarter one.”
Daveed scoffs. “Debatable.”
Madison smirks, then gently squeezes Rook’s hand—careful pressure, grounding—and lets go before it can become too much.
Nyx steps forward next.
“Nyx,” she says, voice warm and blunt. “I’m the girlfriend. The one who will bite people if they make you uncomfortable.”
Daveed deadpans, “She means that.”
Nyx lifts her brows. “Do not undermine my brand.”
Rook’s mouth twitches—almost a smile, surprised out of them.
A voice pipes up from absolutely nowhere.
“Well this is awkward.”
Rook yelps, nearly levitating off the couch.
A translucent figure lounges upside-down in midair near the ceiling, legs crossed, hands behind his head. His form flickers faintly like bad reception, grin wide and unapologetic.
“Hi!” he chirps. “Tyell. Corporeal ghost. Local menace.”
Rook stares. “You— you weren’t at the door.”
Tyell flips upright and drops lightly to the floor, boots making no sound. “Doors and I have an understanding. I ignore them.”
Daveed pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tyell.”
“What?” Tyell spreads his hands, innocent. “I didn’t possess anything this time.”
Rook’s laugh spills out before they can stop it—warm and uneven, starting as a breathy snort and breaking into a bright, ringing chuckle. It rises in little bursts, shoulders shaking, eyes crinkling like they’re in on a secret only they fully understand. It lingers a second after it ends, leaving the room lighter, like someone cracked a window.
Everyone freezes.
Daveed doesn’t.
The laugh hits him like sunlight straight to the spine—surprise, relief, warmth—so strong it almost steals his breath. His empathy catches the ripple it causes in the room: Madison’s tension easing by a fraction, Nyx’s satisfied amusement, Stara’s quiet good like a note in a chart. Even Tyell looks briefly stunned before his grin goes smug.
Tyell points triumphantly. “See? I’m charming.”
Stara claps her hands once, reclaiming momentum. “Alright! Group visit objectives: one—check on Daveed and make sure he’s not doing anything stupid. Two—emotionally harass Daveed. Three—make sure Rook knows they’re stuck with us.”
Rook blinks. “Stuck?”
Madison smiles, soft but fierce. “Family sticks.”
Nyx nods, solemn as a vow. “And we’re very hard to get rid of.”
Tyell salutes. “We’re like mold. But with better jokes.”
The tension breaks after that.
Stara claims the kitchen like she owns it, rummaging through cabinets with the ease of someone who has absolutely done this before. She makes a face two seconds in.
“You’re out of the good tea,” she calls. “And this coffee is a crime.”
“It’s a budget brand,” Daveed protests weakly.
“It’s punishable,” Madison adds, following her in and stealing a mug.
Nyx lifts the coffee bag and sniffs it like it offended her personally. “This smells like regret.”
“It was on sale,” Daveed says.
Nyx points at him. “Heal your taste buds. I’ll take custody of your grocery choices.”
Tyell drifts around the living room inspecting everything upside-down. “Wow. You two live like monks with commitment issues.”
The apartment is lush in a deliberate way—plants everywhere, turning the space into a pocket greenhouse suspended above the city. Pothos trail from high shelves; ferns crowd the corners; a few leaves shimmer faintly as if they’re holding enchantment in their veins. The furniture is low and rounded, arranged to keep clear paths wide enough for wings to unfold without catching on corners—flight-safe lines that still exist even if one set of wings is gone now. The ceiling’s a touch higher than normal for a two-bedroom, reinforced with old spells that hum faintly when someone tall with wings stretches.
Rook watches it all from the couch, overwhelmed in a good way—like stepping into a well-worn shoe. Lived-in. A life already in motion that was only waiting for them to step back into it.
Daveed sits beside them, close enough that their knees touch. His empathy is loud—Rook’s emotions ripple through him in bright, unfamiliar colors—but the joy threaded through it eases the edge.
Madison returns first, handing Rook a mug. “Tea,” she says. “Non-alcoholic. Stara’s not letting anyone make bad decisions tonight.”
Rook accepts it carefully. “Thank you.”
They take a sip and blink like the act unlocks a sensation they recognize even if the memory isn’t there. Another small shard of identity, warm in their hands.
Madison studies them, then asks, gently, “How much do you remember?”
Rook exhales. “Pieces. Feelings more than facts.” Their fingers tighten around the mug. “I know I loved being a guardian. I know Heaven hurts people in the name of being right.” Their gaze flicks to Daveed, and the bond hums with something fierce and tender. “And I know I love him.”
Daveed feels that last part like a punch straight to the chest. He has to look away, blinking hard, because the warmth is too sharp to contain.
Madison’s eyes soften. “That tracks.”
Tyell plops down cross-legged on the coffee table. “For what it’s worth, you were always the calm one. Whenever Daveed did something catastrophically dramatic—”
“Why does this keep coming up,” Daveed mutters.
“—you’d glare at us like disappointed parents, fix the situation, and then forgive him immediately.”
Rook snorts. “I sound insufferable.”
“You were,” Stara calls from the kitchen, cheerful. “In a morally superior way.”
Nyx adds, “It was hot, honestly.”
Daveed makes a noise of protest that nobody honors.
Rook laughs again—more freely this time—and Daveed feels it bloom inside him, warm and steady. His shoulders finally relax.
Stara returns, leaning against the counter, gaze flicking clinical out of habit. “Okay,” she says. “How’s the phantom nonsense?”
Rook hesitates. “Like something is missing,” they admit. “Like trying to stretch a limb that isn’t there.”
Stara nods, satisfied with the honesty. “Normal. It’ll ease. Maybe never fully stop—but it won’t always hurt.”
A brief, sharp ache blooms in Rook at the word never, and Daveed’s empathy catches it—tightens—but before it can spiral, Nyx flicks her wrist and a soft glamour settles over the room. It doesn’t block anyone’s feelings. It just turns the volume down enough for breathing room.
Daveed exhales slowly. “Thanks.”
Nyx shrugs. “I like you functional.”
Rook watches them all—this chaotic, competent swarm of care—and something in their chest loosens again. Not all the way. But enough.
Stara clears her throat. “Before anyone gets too deep into trauma bonding—”
Tyell gasps. “We’re trauma bonding?”
“We are,” Madison says dryly. “Shut up.”
Stara continues, eyes flicking toward the door. “There’s one more thing.”
The room goes very still.
Rook feels it before they see it—not grace, not empathy. Something else. Curiosity. Gravity. A quiet pull that doesn’t hurt but doesn’t let go either.
Madison stands and steps aside.
Nyx moves too, and for the first time Rook notices she’s been holding something back this whole time—like a secret tucked behind her ribs.
“Okay,” Nyx says, softer now. “We didn’t come alone.”
The door opens again.
And Amarah walks in between Madison and Nyx like she owns the entire world.
She’s small and dark-skinned, curls neatly gathered into little twists that frame her face, each one done with care. She’s holding her one-eyed stuffed lion by the ear. She looks freshly fed and freshly loved and faintly smug about it, like she knows she’s important.
No wings. No halo. No horns.
Just Amarah.
She stops a few steps inside and looks up.
Her eyes—dark, deep, unfathomably old and startlingly young—lock onto Rook’s.
The world narrows.
Rook’s breath leaves them in a shaky exhale. Their hands go numb around the mug. Their knees threaten to give out, and Daveed’s hand is there instantly on their forearm, steadying without gripping, present without pushing.
Then she toddles forward with determined seriousness, lion dragging behind her like a cape. No one moves to stop her. Madison’s whole body goes still, like she’s watching a sacred thing. Nyx’s expression softens into something fierce and proud.
Amarah stops directly in front of Rook and tilts her head back.
For a long moment, she just looks.
Rook crouches slowly, every movement deliberate. They don’t reach out. They wait.
Amarah raises a small hand and presses it flat against Rook’s chest.
The contact hits like a bell struck deep underwater.
Not angelic grace. Not infernal hunger. Something new—resonance humming through bone, settling behind the eyes. Warmth. Safety. Being chosen rather than assigned. The sensation of a tiny weight in their arms. A lullaby they can’t remember but their body recognizes the shape of.
Rook’s eyes fill with tears.
“Hi,” they whisper.
Amarah’s mouth curves into a solemn little smile.
“Roo,” she says, careful and certain.
The sound devastates them.
Rook folds forward gently, resting their forehead against Amarah’s curls. They don’t remember rocking her, feeding her, whispering promises into the dark—but their body remembers. Their heart does.
Daveed’s empathy flares—pride, love, relief—so intense he has to swallow hard.
“She knows you,” he says quietly, voice rough with wonder. “She’s always known you.”
Amarah pats Rook’s cheek with surprising authority, like she’s confirming they’re real.
“Stay,” she says.
Rook laughs through tears. “I’m not going anywhere,” they promise, and this time it feels like truth.
Nyx clears her throat softly, as if she’s giving the moment space while still making sure it doesn’t turn into panic.
“She’s been with us,” Nyx says, voice steady, addressing Rook and Daveed both. “Because we live together. Because our place is already baby-proofed. Because Madison and I both sleep better when we know she’s not trying to climb a bookshelf at three a.m.”
Madison snorts. “She would.”
Nyx continues, softer now. “And because you two needed time. To breathe. To relearn each other without also trying to do everything at once.”
Rook lifts their head, eyes red-rimmed. “I—”
Nyx holds up a hand, gentle but firm. “No guilt. None. She’s ours too” Her gaze sharpens with sincerity. “Whenever you need—whenever you’re overwhelmed, whenever you need a night, a weekend, a break—she stays with us. No questions. No bargaining. You text, we open the door.”
Madison nods once, fierce. “Family sticks,” she repeats, and this time it’s not a joke. It’s a boundary. A promise.
Rook’s breath shudders. Their arms finally move—slow, careful—and they lift Amarah up. Amarah settles against them like she’s been waiting for that exact moment, cheek warm on Rook’s shoulder, lion squished between them.
Rook sways once, as if their balance has to remember this too. Their chin dips to the crown of Amarah’s head without thinking.
Amarah sighs—content, complete—and the room exhales with her.
Tyell wipes at his face dramatically. “I’m going to cry.”
Nyx points at him without looking. “Do it quietly.”
Stara’s voice comes from the kitchen, too bright, deliberately casual. “Alright! Now that we’ve all emotionally collapsed—someone feed Rook. Someone make Daveed drink water. Someone stop Tyell from making this weird.”
Tyell gasps. “I would never.”
Daveed sits back down beside Rook, close enough their knees touch again. He doesn’t reach for more than that. He just stays.
Rook looks down at Amarah—at the tiny, fierce trust of her—and then at Daveed.
“I don’t know what to do,” they admit, voice small.
Daveed’s smile is tired and honest and full of love. “Same,” he says. “But we’ll figure it out.”
Amarah chooses that moment to grab both their hands—one tiny fist in each—like she’s physically tethering them together.
“Stay,” she repeats, satisfied.
Rook’s throat tightens. They manage a laugh that doesn’t break. “We’re staying,” they promise.
And the apartment—plants, wards, messy found family and all—seems to accept it as truth.
"Zeke... W-Why...?" Braxton quietly said, trying to stop the bleeding.
"I told you... I'll always protect you..."
He kept his promise. When he and Zeke met each other, he assumed he would just be another teammate. It soon turned into him wanting to follow him around everywhere. He seemed more like a bodyguard than a friend.
"Zeke, I can walk home on my own. You don't have to follow me around."
"I have to. Who knows when someone's gonna jump from the shadows and kill you. Plus, you know me. I'll always protect you."
He told him he's tough. He can fight them off.
But now he had the blood of his friend all over him. Someone attempted to mug him, Zeke fought him off and he got stabbed. And Braxton, like a coward, couldn't do anything.
"Zeke, please hang on. Help is on the way."
But he couldn't do anything. He couldn't protect him, he couldn't save him and he couldn't keep him alive. He could only sob as Zeke's empty eyes stared into the night sky.
From my OC Medwhump fic: Between Alives: Surviving One Death At a Time
CW: seizure, death, hospital, pain
JOHN
My head became dizzy and my chest ached, “Lee, just let me go. I’m sorry.” I told him. I knew what was coming. My chest jerked harder than it had before, and then I was gone.
I felt repetitive pushing on my chest. I wasn’t helping this time I wasn’t fighting. I hoped they would fail. I ruined my sister’s life. Now she was a different person, a person who would kill me being around her. What was the point of living? I felt the pushing stop. Good. Call it.
I woke up again. “No! God damn it! Let me die already!” I yelled out loud. I had no idea how much time passed. I didn’t know who was around me. I didn’t care. I wanted to be gone. I didn’t want to be awake. I didn’t want to be alive anymore. I was fucking tired of trying to live.
I ripped the oxygen from my face. I pulled off the heart monitor leads. I wanted to rip out the IV from my arm but it was in my good arm. A gentle hand grabbed the hand tearing everything off my body and held it. I tried to do it with my other arm but I still couldn't move it. I jerked my hand from whoever was holding it and brought it to my face. I was going to rip it out with my fucking teeth if I had to. If it didn’t work, maybe all the thrashing would finally stop my heart. A stronger arm held my hand. They didn’t force it down, just held it with more strength than I had to fight back.
My body rocked as it tried to calm down. I realized I couldn’t hear voices. Maybe I was dead. Thank God. Or I had gone completely deaf and couldn’t hear people being upset anymore. Good. Either way, I wanted to check out, so I did.
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AJ let out another deep breath. They had mostly been left alone and together this week, taking the chance to heal. AJ’s braces had come off and as much as he hated it, he’d give credit to Dr Hudson, he had improved the serum, he was still sore and had wicked scars but his bones were healed.
If only the same could be said for Darius.
The brother that sat across from him was not that same man as he’d once known. He was quiet and deathly pale, he flinched all the time, especially around other people. AJ had heard him sobbing when he thought AJ was asleep. He still had black eyes and a broken nose from the beating he had taken.
Beating…. Yeah right.
It had been on day three of their mini break that Darius had rolled over in his sleep and his t-shirt had rode up, baring his back. AJ had seen the dark purple handprints on each hip even in the darkened room. The further bruising in a line down his back, teeth marks highlighting each one. With a dawning horror AJ had pieced together what must have happened. The crying, the flinching, the monotone voice. Shit.
Once Darius had woken, AJ had tried to broach the subject. Darius had shut him down with curt replies and refusals to engage. AJ decided to just come clean.
“Your shirt rode up in the night Darius, I could see all the bruising. I know you were assaulted and I’m here for you. Always. If you want to talk, I’ll listen and you know I’d never judge.”
And Daruis had slowly told him, bit at a time, about what that fucking bastard had put him through. And his former fucking friends had allowed it, encouraged it even. AJ had held him lightly, arm round his shoulders as Darius had sobbed.
“The worst thing is AJ, It w-was my f-fault. I didn’t fight at f-first. I just let them.” The admission came out in painful gasps.
“I just g-gave them permission. I j-just let him collar me and he handed me over to that m-monster like I was nothing. Not even a person.”
“Darius”, AJ soothed, his voice gentle. “This is not your fault.”
“It still hurts AJ…. Inside me….. I can still feel him.”
Anger like he’d never known had burned through AJ as Darius had cried himself back to sleep. AJ rocked him gently, trying to emulate how their mother had held him, when he’d been sick or upset. In contrast, his mind was a violent rage of fury. When he finally got his hands on those motherfuckers, he would tear them apart.
Several days of trying to help Darius passed before Dr Hudson returned to their cell. His gaze lingered on Darius for a moment before the hint of concern was quickly masked.
Two of Dr Hudson’s thugs stepped forward, pulled them apart, cuffed their hands and led them to the lab. Several chains hung low from the ceiling and the ever present camera watched on.
Dr Hudson addressed them both. “We have a big day tomorrow, securing some extra funding for your tests”, the doctor smirked then continued. “The serum seems to be working well on injuries, but we’re still not having a lot of luck with scaring and external healing times. I’ve adjusted one of the formulas to hopefully help….
So, whose turn is it today?”
Darius shuffled forward, eyes dull. AJ grabbed him and pulled him back. Darius flinched again and sorrow swelled in AJ. He shoved Darius behind him, this time he would protected his big brother, no matter what it would cost him.
“Very well, uncuff him please and get him into those shackles. The doctor nodded to the ceiling chains.
AJ’s hands were briefly freed just as Calvin waltzed the lab. He leered at Darius and in a voice loud enough to carry, confirmed AJ’s fears.
“You ready for round two yet? The bodyguard enjoyed your time together. So much, in fact, he’s booked in another visit”.
AJ exploded forward and wrapped his hands round Calvin’s throat, determined to throttle the life from his worthless body. Two goons rushed into the lab and wrenched him off. AJ shrieked at Calvin as his wrists were wrestled into the hanging shackles, arms held aloft in a V shape above him as he continued to yell, words spat at Calvin like poison.
“Enough, both of you”, Dr Hudson held a hand up and slashed it through the air. “Calvin. You can take observations today, it’s probably best if you two are kept at a distance”.
Dr Hudson wired AJ up to a variety of monitors and took his base line readings. He motioned to a lab technician who nervously came forward, holding a syringe and test tubes to take his bloods.
AJ grinned down at the timid med tech. “I used to do your job once, for these very same people, keep that in mind during your next 1-1 with the good doctor.” The tech paled further and fumbled the needle into his vein. Amateurs, AJ thought while he bared his teeth at the man.
Whilst his bloods were taken, Dr Hudson cut his shirt from him and injected what he supposed was his beloved regen serum into various points across his back.
He came to stand in front of AJ and motioned someone behind him as he spoke. “Sorry we keep going for the back. But it does have 31 pairs on spinal nerves, makes for a good test site.”
AJ felt the heat of the metal before it pressed into his lower back. His skin sizzled, the sickening torment held him in its grip as he burned. The pain was exquisite, it shrieked through every part of him as he balled his hands into fists, holding tightly to the chains he was shackled to.
The burning metal lifted from his skin, he let out the breath he was holding as his body shook involuntarily. The burn throbbed and pain pulsed from the wound.
“Again”, Calvin ordered. The doctor threw him a warning glance but gave a nod.
The metal rod was applied to his shoulder blade and rolled downward slowly. AJ felt the skin stick then pull away as it moved. He groaned out his agony through gritted teeth, panting when it was removed.
“Again”, the prick ordered.
“Again”
“Again”
AJ lost his battle with himself to stay quiet and screamed as the hot metal pressed into him again and again, the smell of cooked flesh filling his nose. His burnt skin stretched and split open with each tiny movement, he could only imagine what his back resembled. He slumped in his bonds and begged.
“Ok, ok, please stop. Please.”
Calvin laughed cruelly. “Ok, Darius, your up next.”
“NO”. The shriek from AJ echoed sounded through the lab. Darius was fighting to get away from the man restraining him, tears running down his face.
“No”, AJ said, quieter this time, defeated. “Just continue with me. Please.”
As the metal continued to burn agony into his flesh, he heard Dr Hudson muttering behind him. The sound felt distant to him now, the fiery torture of his back had his overwhelming attention.
“Look, this is a lot better”, he observed AJ’s skin, taking close ups of certain areas. “It’s healing a lot nicer and quicker than I expected. It’s still scarring badly though. Humm.” The muttering voices continued, AJ found he didn’t care.
Calvin moved in his peripheral vision and added some more branding irons to flames AJ hadn’t noticed in the corner of the lab earlier, an oven of some sort. The irons looked to have letters on them, he vaguely wondered why you’d need letters.
Calvin moved again and AJ lifted his head and grimaced an approximation of a smile at him, fury raging in his eyes.
“I. Will. Fucking. Kill. You”, he grout out.
Calvin just smirked and looked at the doctor. After a few more notes and measurements, Dr Hudson gave a nod. He typed a final note into his iPad and levelled a glare at Calvin.
“If you kill him, you’ll be the one explaining why to Shadow”, the doctor threatened. “Keep that in mind.”
Calvin saluted and removed the first iron from the fire. He ran a finger over AJ’s chest then stepped back before AJ could kick him.
“Ah AJ. I’ve been thinking of how we carved ‘Traitor’ into Darius, how lovely it looked and how nicely the scars have set. I thought we should match it on you too.”
AJ focused on the iron in front of him. The letter ‘T’ glowed red hot, heat shimmered off it. AJ set his jaw and glared at Calvin.
AJ thought how this punishment is less than what Darius received. Will never be as bad as what happened to his brother. He grinned at Calvin as the first brand made contact and then seared into his skin. Hot, white agony erupted and his body shook violently again. He howled, head thrown back in an agonised scream as tears streaked down his face.
He would not break, he would kill them and then spend the rest of his life helping Darius recover. They just had to get through, had to survive.
Well, new closed head injury after previous TBI means unknown time of blurry vision so who knows when I will be back to writing. I will try to read just know you’re not forgotten.
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Back in the early 2000s, was this super great show called Invisible Man. In the show, Darian was given a tattoo to keep track of his quicksilver. Once the snake was all red, he would go into Quicksilver Madness. Quite a few years ago, I got the tattoo, reminding me I’m always at least half way to madness.
