(mostly) whump

There’s an arm around his waist as the man comes up beside him, looking like two people taking a stroll towards the alley next to the grocery store, the thin strip of pavement and trash and feral cats that separates it from the restaurant and hippie boutique beside it. Antoni chances a glance to the side, but the gun jams hard against his ribs and the man says, softly, “Don’t fucking look until I tell you to look.”

Antoni tells himself he’ll take the bullet if they leave the alley. Never, ever allow yourself to be taken, it’s taught at every group safety class, again and again. Never let them remove you from where you are, or you will never come home.

Never let WRU put you in a van.

He can take a beating, but he isn't going to let himself be taken, not again.

With each step, he steels himself for what he’ll have to do next. Elbow the man in the side, knock the gun away, turn on a dime and then run without hesitation. Once they’re in the alley, he’ll do it. Once there aren’t other people who might get hurt.

But as soon as they’re shielded by the rise of brick walls and the shadows, the man shoves his back up against the wall, blocked from view by a dumpster. Antoni sees green eyes, shaggy ash-blond hair, and the man pulls the facemask he’s wearing down to reveal sneering lips, too-white, too-perfect teeth. 

“Are you the one fucking him?” The man's voice is breathless, as if he’s been holding the viciously snapped words inside too long, eating away at him. Acid corroding the inside of his lungs. Antoni stares, simply not comprehending the question, but then the gun jabs harder into his ribs and he coughs at the flash of pain, the ache.

And he knows.

“... you are Owen Grant,” Antoni says. 

The perfect calm in his voice enrages the man, he can tell - those pupils get smaller, his face flushes, and the gun jams itself right underneath his chin. Antoni tips his head back but it follows him, metal warmed by contact with his skin. If the trigger pulls this angle won't kill him, but it will leave him with the front part of his face simply obliterated, shatter his teeth to shards of glass.

The scent of smoke is stronger, more acrid, and there’s a sweetness threading in underneath.

He closes his eyes, feeling his heart shudder to a stop before it beats again. Wildfires burning don't smell like this.

“I’m asking a question.” 

“No,” Antoni answers, letting his hands drop, pressing the palms to the wall behind him. Decay and trash flood his senses, and remind him too much of-

moving the body, misha grumbling about how much harder it was to handle after a week, artyom snapping at his little brother that it wouldn’t have been so difficult if he’d only told him earlier, the smell makes him vomit along the roots of a tree before they wrap the body in a tarp to drag up the hill to his waiting car, misha goes back with a shovel to bury the remnants of artyom’s dinner so it can’t be tracked back to him, the smell won’t come out of his trunk for weeks no matter what he does

-something he doesn’t want to remember, not now. Not when he needs to be able to think.

“No,” he repeats, shivering, suddenly cold even while the air is still an oven baking the world around him. “I do not have sex with Kauri.”

“So it’s the other one, then,” Owen Grant says, thinking now, his eyes searching Antoni’s face. “The big one. He’s the one fucking him.”

Antoni doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to, it’s not really a question at all. 

Owen makes a sound of frustrated fury and then Antoni’s world cracks white. He goes down hard, falling into a puddle made from something that definitely isn’t rainwater that smells like freezer burnt food and asphalt. The throbbing in the side of his face is the way he knows he was just hit with the gun itself. 

The last person to pistol-whip me-

A boot slams into his side and he grunts, curling up protectively, the thought gone before it can finish. The butt of the gun comes down on the top of his head, and Antoni sees stars, going suddenly limp. He might… go away for a second. He might not. 

No, he does.

He does, because he smells a different smoke entirely when he comes back to himself. 

His breath hitches, heart racing, adrenaline screaming at him to run, and dares to look up. He can smell Mr. Davies, the scent of his clove cigarette heavy like a hand holding the nameless pet down, pushing the heat into his back, laughing while he burns. 

But it’s only Owen, looking down at him, lighting the clove cigarette and then dropping it.

It falls on Antoni and he scrambles backwards in clothes soaked in dirty water to get away. It sizzles out when it hits the puddle, too. Owen grins, and lights another.

There’s a mad light in his eyes that makes Antoni think-

of misha, bent over someone struggling to live, his hands wrapped around the victim’s neck, their eyes bulging while their lips move begging not to die but misha doesn’t need anyone to live he never leaves a survivor he always wants to see every last moment of love and life and light leave the eyes of whoever was unfortunate enough to be his chosen and artyom watches, dulled heavy-lidded eyes taking in the murder he will help to cover up

-of some faint faded memory hidden so far back within him, better left buried there with all the other graves Antoni’s life has created.

“Scream for help,” Owen says, watching Antoni push himself back against the wall. He pulls out another clove cigarette, lighting it slowly, idly. This one he lets burn for a while. The cloying sweet smell pushes its fingers into Antoni’s mouth, lingers on his tongue and down his throat, filling all the space he needs for breathing. “Go ahead. Scream.”

Antoni stares up at him. His phone’s in his pocket. He could grab it, he could call. He could scream, he-

He can’t.

If he screams, someone might call the police, which means they might find out too much. Kauri and Chris are safe, after going on TV, but the rest of them… the other rescues, some of them might be genuinely willing sign-ups, which means going right back into that hell. 

He can’t risk it.

His mouth closes with a snap.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Owen flicks the cigarette at him, watching him flinch violently and sweep it off of himself as fast as he can. Ash is on his shirt now, smeared like blood, marking his fingertips. 

Owen considers.

Lights another cigarette.

“I want back what’s mine,” Owen says, almost conversationally. “I do. None of you had to be a part of this, but you’re all protecting him, and that’s bullshit. He’s mine. Thanks to that little stunt he pulled, I know who you all are. I have my own ways of finding out shit, you know? Made some calls, paid some people. I know who you all are.”

“You do not kn-know me,” Antoni says, but his voice falters, and he holds on with desperate internal white knuckles to his identity, his understanding of himself. “You do not-”

“Sorry about your brother,” Owen interrupts. He lights a third cigarette, watching as Antoni goes still, prey in the sights of a larger predator. “By the way. He got what was coming to him, though, don’t you think?”

“My brothers are all alive,” Antoni says. His accent is getting thicker, heavier, as he starts to panic. “My brothers-”

“Your brother was shot dead by cops. You should be in prison, too, I bet, but instead you-... what? Ran away to WRU to escape the consequences? Fucking pathetic. All of you, that’s all you know how to do, run run run. Run away, run away from me. All you… all of you.” Owen’s gaze goes distant, and Antoni’s eyes shift. He can see the lights of the parking lot, so very very close. If he makes a break for it and goes for his car-

He doesn’t see the kick coming.

Owen’s foot slams down directly between his legs and the pain explodes through every nerve, followed on its heels by a new burst of white when he is hit in the face again, forced onto his stomach on the dirty pavement. He chokes, gags on pain that tries to force him to throw up everything he’s eaten, somehow he doesn’t. Somehow he manages.

Owen drops onto him and Antoni gasps, breathless, vaguely aware through the haze of pain that his shirt is being shoved up, baring the skin of his back. He throbs, between his legs, inside his head, along his cheekbone.

“Holy shit,” Owen whispers. Antoni can’t help his soft, whimpered whine as rough fingers press into old, old scars. 

“That’s fucking hideous,” Owen says, then gives an odd little giggle. His fingers are tracing little designs, like making constellations out of stars. “No wonder my Kor-Bore doesn’t fuck you. I wouldn't either."

Antoni’s face burns, and he gets his hands under him, trying to push himself up onto to have Owen’s fingers tangle in his messy hair and shove his face back into the pavement so hard he feels skin scrape off his cheekbone, the sting of gravel being forced into a new wound. His nose pulses in time with his heartbeat. 

“No worries, man,” Owen says, running his palm over Antoni’s lower back, around to his side, just feeling the bumps and texture of his uneven scars. “I don't care about you. I just want my slut back, you know? That’s all I want. So this is a message.”

“I won’t-... will not give the message,” Antoni manages, muffled against the ground.

“Oh, you will. It's not a message that really needs words."

Owen uses the grip on his hair to pull his head back, then slams it forward into the ground. Antoni sees white flashes and black, red against the inside of his eye lids. Another slam into the ground, a burst of something from his nose, and he can’t remember how to use his arms and legs anymore. He’s limp, and hears only distantly the sound of the lighter again.

The edge of a cigarette presses into the back of his neck, directly where a collar once covered his skin, and the pet burns. He whines like an animal, jerks against the weight on top of him, but it does nothing. He’s too weak, his head spinning and throbbing. He fights-

they fight, misha’s victims, they thrash and struggle and sometimes get a scratch in along his cheekbone or the side of his neck and in the winter he wears turtlenecks to hide any signs of those who tried to live and in the summer he blames the cat, who has never scratched anyone but who misha’s mother believes is vicious thanks to misha’s lies and artyom watches them die and buries the dead and cuts them apart and doesn’t say, that was a fingernail and not a claw, he doesn’t say this one had daughters or this one had a brother or their parents probably loved them, they had so much to fight for but misha thinks

-but he can’t fight hard enough.

“I’m going to hurt everyone around him,” Owen whispers, and presses a new burn just below the last. He starts to make a perfect straight line down the center of the pet’s spine, laughter in his smug voice as the pet jerks and whimpers and can’t make enough noise to get anyone’s attention. Time draws out, terrible impossible seconds that feel like hours. “One by one by one." Each use of 'one' is another bright new burn. "Until he comes back to me. And I’m not done yet, do you hear me? I’m not remotely done. No… but he can stop it. He can come to me, and he can stop it. If he doesn’t…”

The hand in his hair moves, fingers scratching lightly at his scalp, watching the pet shudder in disgust at the touch. 

“If he doesn’t, there’s still more I can do. Worse than I’ve done. I’ll give him a couple days to come back to me, and then I’ll show him just how much I missed him, you know? I’ll show him he still belongs to me, they both do, Vincent Shield is mine.”

“Kauri-... Kauri is not-”

“Ssssshhhh. He might as well be, right? But that’s okay. That's just fine." One last burn, and then the cigarette is dropped right next to the pet’s face, the heady smoke up his nose and over his tongue. Owen ruffles his hair, and then pushes himself up to standing. “Go home, you’re a fucking mess.”

Owen walks away, leaving the pet lying there.

Time passes. The pet doesn't know how much.

Eventually he staggers up and to his feet, the world spinning sickly around him. A headache throbs behind his temples, blood trickling down his face. His nose might be broken again. He can still smell the smoke. 

He can still smell-

misha takes a pack of cigarettes out of the body’s pocket and lights one, the trail of bitter smoke rising into the air, tobacco and chemicals stinging artyom’s own nose, making him wrinkle it as he lays out the plastic tarp and misha looks over at him, smiling and sated for the moment, his eyes sparkling, artyom’s sickly younger brother all grown up into a monster that must be sacrificed to to keep their family intact and the smoke makes artyom cough

The pet coughs as he stumbles back out of the alleyway into the evening light, moving mindlessly back to Jake’s car, the smell of decay, dirty water, and clove cigarettes clinging to his body, new burns itching and aching all the way down his spine. 

He stares at four flat tires, slashed open, the gleam of metal along the side where someone had keyed through the paint.

Owen Grant isn't working alone, he catalogues dully. Someone is helping him. Someone did this while he was hurting the pet in an alley.

He can't go home.

The pet remembers his phone only when he’s sitting in the driver’s seat, looking sightlessly through the windshield wondering if the cold things will have gone warm and started going bad in the trunk.

He looks at Jake’s number for a while, thinks about the small plain bands the three of them wear for each other, and then slowly leans his aching head against the steering wheel.

Jake picks up on the second ring. "Antoni?"

Right. That's his name.

"I need you to call Nat," Antoni says, his voice rough. He pushes down the tears that try to prick his eyes. There is no time for crying, not now. No time at all.

"Why? Ant, you're late coming back from-"

"I met Owen," Antoni says, voice heavy. He feels dizzy, still, and a little sleepy. "I need you to come get me."

There's a pause. "Fuck. And you have my car."

"Mmmhmm." Antoni's going to fall asleep right here and now, the crash of adrenaline and the pulse of pain throughout his body working together to drag him into the dark.

He always liked the darkness best anyway.

"Well... okay, Laken's here and they have a car, we'll be there in fifteen minutes, okay?"

"Okay," Antoni manages, and then hangs up. He doesn't move his head from the steering wheel.

Inside of him, determination grows.

Owen Grant cannot have Kauri.

Not ever again.

Antoni has never allowed his family to come to harm if he could prevent it, and he will not allow this.

-

There’s a bandage, still, on his forehead. He wishes he could say it was from the day in class, but it’s not. It’s from a few days ago, after meeting with the grad student to sign stuff to drop the class. It’s from coming home with all his hurt and fear a spinning top that he could only calm by breaking its rhythm, and he’s, it’s regression, but it’s okay, sometimes you go back and you get back up and go forward again, Dr. Berger says it’s okay sometimes to backslide as long as you know you have people to help you get up-

“I’m fine,” He says, flat and smooth words, barely his own voice at all. “Hit my head on, on, on a cabinet.”

Technically true.

She nods, folding her hands in her lap, watching him with those sort of big sad eyes people get sometimes, when they’re working up to something and want you to know they’re not the bad guy. Her drink has a cloth sleeve on it with tiny little bow ties. He wonders if she made it herself.

She clears her throat. “Okay, um. Good to hear it. So... I just... I heard you dropped.”

“Yep.” Chris keeps his eyes down now, on his pencil. The gentle weight of his feather necklace reminds him that he has other options, too. For now, though, he spins his pencil on top of his open notebook, the drawing of the moai. “Who told you that, um, that-... that I, I dropped?”

“I mean, when you weren’t in class for a couple weeks-... you know at first I thought you just, like, you know... the teacher told you not to come by, but then you kept not coming, and...” She kind of throws her hands up. Hers are painted a cheerful blue-toned red. Chris’s are black, but they’re heavily chipped. He’s been picking at them again. “I asked Esh, finally, and he said-”

“Eshiram.”

“What?” She blinks, confused. 

“Not Esh. His, his, his name’s Eshiram.”

“No, I know, I just-... whatever. Look, so, I get that you’re probably still pretty mad, and... I’ve kind of been trying to hunt you down to say I’m sorry.”

Chris, caught off guard, pauses in spinning his pencil and turns to look at her again. “What?”

“About... I would never, ever have wanted you to feel you had to drop the class, Chris, I swear.” She leans forward, all earnest sincerity, and there’s a look of guilt on her that makes him think she means it. It wasn’t her idea, after all - if she’s even fucking talking to him, she doesn’t know what he is, she didn’t catch it like the grad student did.

After the drawn out moment, his foot starts to tap on the floor again. “It’s, um, it’s, it’s, it’s okay,” He says, wishing he had his own drink, something to hold in his hands and sip. The nerves start to wind up inside him, and he drops one hand down where she can’t see it, starts to tap on the side of his thigh.

“No, it’s not.” Callie sighs, shaking her head. Her hair moves with the motion and he catches a hint of her shampoo, it smells like fruit and honey. “It’s not, Chris. Look, I just-... I took everything you said super personally, and that wasn’t okay. I get that you, you know, you weren’t really talking about me.”

Chris turns to look at her, blinking wide green eyes, thinking, Yes, I was.

He opens his mouth to maybe tell her, but the pause goes on too long and she’s already talking again before he can. “There’s all these reports about abuse, and everything, I swear more than ever, and it just-... puts me on edge, you know? So I heard you saying-... well, you know. You don’t know that things are better at our house. All you know is what you’ve, you know, seen on the news.”

Chris takes in a breath and holds it, tapping hard against the seam of his jeans. He isn’t going to get angry. Getting angry made him have to drop and lose points off his GPA, getting angry gets him noticed by too many people all at once, angry feels heavy and hurting, angry draws attention, attention mean eyes and hands and-

Let the breath out. Exhale. He has to purposefully remind himself to do it.

“I, I, I know more than, um, than that,” He manages to say, but his voice is small. He’s no good at being angry, when it’s not in the moment, when there’s nothing to draw him out of himself. “I don’t, don’t just... build sets all day, Callie, I’m, I’m, I know other, um, other things.”

“Yeah, I know, I know. Like, I’m surprised you’re not, like, a math major or something, like in that movie-”

Chris sits back and snorts out bitter laughter. “You, you, you mean, um, The Gift?”

“Yeah! Vincent Shield did such a good job, they said he did a bunch of like, work to really get into character which is so cool since he was only, like, sixteen when he did that one with that, you know, the other guy he did movies with all the time-”

“Owen-... Owen Grant.”

“Yeah! I wonder what happened to him. Anyway-”

“Do you, do... do, do, do you think-... Callie, I suck at, um, at math.” Chris can’t help himself. He starts to laugh at the absurdity, and Callie looks like he’s hit her across the face, wide-eyed, shocked. “This is, um, this, this is, this-... this is a really, really-... really bad apology.”

“Yeah, I know.” Callie kind of laughs along with him, then, but there’s something fake and brittle to her laughter. “But I swear, I just came to say I’m sorry. It was just a misunderstanding, I really didn’t mean for you to have to drop. I swear, Chris, I don’t, like, hate you or think anything bad about you-”

You called me a fucking spastic.

“-or anything like that. I just... can you forgive me for losing my temper? I’m sorry, it’s just, when my family is attacked by people who don’t even know us, I get super defensive, and-... and I should have realized you weren’t really attacking us, just, you know, the system.”

Chris stares down at his shoes. He thinks, you are the system, it doesn’t exist without people like you who buy us, but he doesn’t say anything.

She seems to take this as agreement.

It isn’t.

“So, yeah. I’m just... I’m really sorry, Chris. Will this throw your whole, you know, graduation and everything off, or do you think you’ll still be good?”

Does she even really care? Chris swallows and raises his head, to look at her again, fixing his eyes just slightly to the left of her face, where it won’t be obvious he isn’t focused on her. An old trick, one he used to do to stay safe in training, maybe... maybe before that.

Even though he can’t remember a before that anymore.

Because of people who buy people like him.

“I’ll, um, I’ll be good,” He says, and the words taste like dust and feel like gravel on his tongue. “I worked out a, a, a-a plan with, with my, um advisor. So I’ll... I’ll be-”

so good for you

“Fine.”

“Great.” She relaxes, all smiles again, and reaches over putting her hand over his left arm, gripping a little. Chris feels the weight of it like the clap of restraints forcing him down on a table and stiffens, looking right at her the way he’s supposed to.

Years go by, but the training isn’t gone. Not all the way.

“Listen,” She says, voice low. “I really am sorry. But you just-... can’t go around thinking everybody who does something you don’t like is bad, you know?”

His heart races in his throat, he can barely swallow around it. “Yes,” He says, softly. She doesn’t hear the first stirrings of panic. But he feels them. “I... know.”

Good boy.

“I’ll see you around, Chris, okay? I’m glad we talked about this.” She pats his arm, like a handler almost, and then pushes herself to her feet. The chair scrapes back and Chris’s teeth grind together as the sound ricochets around inside him. The dim warm lights overhead lay heavily over the fabric he wears to protect himself from touch like that.

It’s not enough.

He can still feel the hand on his arm as she walks away, heads out the double-doors and is gone.

Chris’s hand slides to the feather and he pushes the silicone plastic between his teeth, letting his tongue press up against the carved vanes, sinking into the familiar sensation, letting it wrap around him, calm his pulse, help him rebuild the thin wall he needs between himself and the world.

He stares blankly off into space, chewing the feather, unnoticed by the few other people in the Student Center this early in the morning. 

She probably feels so much better.

Like so many other people in his life, she made herself feel better by making Chris feel so much worse.

After a while, still chewing on the feather, he picks his pencil back up and starts to draw another moai.

He’s probably going to fail this test.

---

This time, another set of footsteps accompanied hers.

They were faster.

Uneven.

One foot landed normally. The other dragged faintly before lifting again. A rubber sole caught against the floor with a sharp little squeak, followed immediately by a whispered apology.

Another voice answered.

Flat.

Impatient.

The tone handlers used when an apology hadn’t prevented the mistake and therefore had no practical value.

363 stopped chewing.

The bite of rice remained against the inside of their cheek.

Peterson noticed immediately.

She stood near the observation counter with her tablet tucked beneath one arm, watching the slow progress of 363’s meal with the same focused attention she gave everything else. Her eyes moved from the half-finished tray to their face.

“What is it?”

363 didn’t answer.

Their gaze stayed on the door.

The lock disengaged with a heavy metallic click.

Peterson looked toward it just before it opened.

She entered first.

Behind her came another handler with one hand wrapped firmly around 967’s upper arm.

363 recognized her immediately.

967 had been washed.

That was the first thing WRU wanted anyone to notice.

Her hair had been combed carefully and pulled away from her face. Someone had smoothed every loose strand into place. Her gray trainee uniform looked freshly laundered, the fabric stiff with detergent and almost unnaturally clean beneath the white fluorescent light. The sharp chemical smell entered the room with her, industrial detergent strong enough to bury most of the other scents clinging to her skin.

Almost.

363 could still smell disinfectant beneath it.

Something medicinal.

Old sweat.

The faint metallic trace of blood.

WRU had cleaned the evidence.

They hadn’t erased it.

967 held her left arm too close against her body. Not dramatically. She’d been trained better than that. Her elbow stayed tucked against her ribs in a position that could almost pass for proper posture if someone wasn’t looking closely enough.

363 looked closely.

Her steps were careful too.

She placed one foot normally and shifted only part of her weight onto the other. Her ankle wobbled once before she corrected it.

There was bruising beneath one eye.

Someone had tried to conceal it.

A thin layer of foundation softened the edges of the discoloration but couldn’t hide the swelling beneath it. The corner of her mouth had split. Clear ointment covered the small wound, making it shine beneath the harsh overhead lights.

The second handler nudged her forward.

967 smiled.

It was a good smile.

Small.

Soft.

Grateful.

Empty.

363 recognized it immediately.

They’d seen trainees practice that expression in reflective glass until the muscles around their mouths shook from exhaustion. They’d watched handlers stand behind them, correcting the angle of a chin or the tension around their eyes.

Too frightened.

Again.

Too much teeth.

Again.

You look resentful.

Again.

Relax your mouth.

Again.

You’re supposed to look relieved.

Again.

WRU punished fear and then punished people again when fear remained visible afterward.

967’s smile had passed inspection.

363 hated it.

The second handler released her arm.

“Down.”

967 lowered herself beside the wall.

Her injured ankle trembled when it bent beneath her.

She suppressed the reaction quickly.

Not quickly enough.

363 saw it.

“Position,” the handler corrected.

967 adjusted immediately.

Her knees moved farther apart.

Her spine straightened.

Her hands settled neatly on her thighs with the palms down and fingers together.

Her chin lowered to the exact angle WRU preferred.

The handler stepped back and looked her over.

“There.”

Her voice carried that familiar, falsely approving warmth.

“You can do it when you try.”

967’s smile widened.

363 looked at Peterson.

Peterson wasn’t looking at 967 anymore.

She was watching them.

That bothered 363 more.

“967 is going to remain here while I finish your meal assessment,” Peterson said.

363 said nothing.

“You’ll ignore her.”

The instruction made no sense.

363 looked back at their tray.

A measured portion of rice covered one section. Vegetables cooked until their color had faded into something soft and nearly gray occupied another. A square of processed meat sat near the center. Beside it stood one plastic cup of water.

The meal contained precisely enough calories to satisfy whatever formula WRU had calculated for their height, weight, classification, and training schedule.

Not enough to make hunger disappear.

363 had learned that too.

They picked up the utensil again and took another bite.

967 didn’t look at the food.

That was deliberate.

Her gaze remained fixed on the narrow seam where the wall met the floor.

Her breathing stayed shallow.

Each breath barely moved her shoulders.

The other handler moved closer to Peterson and lowered her voice.

“Five minutes. They want her back in medical afterward.”

Peterson glanced toward 967.

“Again?”

“She’s fine.”

967’s fingers curled against her thighs.

Tiny movement.

Immediately corrected.

363 saw it.

Peterson saw them see it.

“What happened?” Peterson asked.

The second handler shrugged.

“Correction.”

“For?”

“Interference.”

Peterson waited.

The handler rolled one shoulder.

“She stepped out of position during another trainee’s session.”

967’s smile stayed in place.

“She was warned,” the handler added. “Twice.”

363 chewed slowly.

Swallowed.

They looked at 967.

“Who was being corrected?”

Silence dropped over the room.

The other handler looked at 363 with visible surprise.

Not because the question itself was especially complicated.

Because 363 had chosen to speak.

Peterson’s expression sharpened.

“That doesn’t concern you.”

363 kept looking at 967.

Her eyes lifted from the floor.

Barely.

Only a fraction.

Enough.

363 saw fear there.

Not fear of them.

Not entirely.

Fear of what the question might cause.

“Did she stop them from being injured?” 363 asked.

The other handler gave a short, disbelieving laugh.

“She made it worse.”

“For whom?”

“363.”

Peterson’s warning came quietly.

That tone meant stop.

363 understood.

They returned their attention to the tray.

The conversation resumed near the door.

967’s breathing changed.

The control slipped slightly now. Each inhale caught too high in her chest before she forced it down again.

363 counted the food remaining.

Six efficient bites of rice.

Three pieces of vegetables.

Half the processed meat.

One cup of water.

They ate two bites of rice.

Then one vegetable.

They set the utensil down.

“Finish,” Peterson said.

363 picked up the square of meat with their fingers.

Peterson glanced toward the other handler.

Less than a second.

Enough.

363 moved.

They didn’t offer the food.

An offer required 967 to make a choice.

A choice could be called disobedience.

They placed the meat against the polished floor beside their own knee and slid it outward with two fingers.

The piece crossed the floor silently.

It stopped beside 967’s right hand.

Close enough that she could cover it without changing her position.

967 stared at it.

Her smile vanished.

For the first time since she’d entered, the trained expression collapsed completely.

“No,” she whispered.

The second handler turned.

“What did you say?”

967’s face rearranged itself instantly.

The smile came back.

“Nothing.”

363 took one of the remaining vegetables and ate it.

Peterson’s gaze lowered.

She saw the food.

“363.”

They looked at her.

“Pick it up.”

“No.”

The second handler made a sharp, incredulous sound.

Peterson lifted one hand without looking at her.

Silence.

Her eyes stayed on 363.

“Why not?”

“967 is hungry.”

“She has her own meal schedule.”

“She’s hungry now.”

“You don’t know that.”

363 looked at 967’s hands.

The fingers of her right hand had shifted slightly.

They covered the meat completely.

“Yes,” 363 said.

Their voice remained calm.

“I do.”

967 stopped breathing.

The other handler stepped forward.

“Hand.”

967 didn’t move.

“Show me your hand.”

Her entire body became rigid.

Her shoulders locked.

Her spine straightened another impossible fraction.

Her smile vanished again.

363 rose.

They didn’t think about it first.

They didn’t need to.

One moment they were seated beside the tray.

The next they stood at their full height.

The movement happened quickly enough that the second handler stumbled backward.

Her hand went instinctively toward the control clipped to her belt.

Peterson didn’t move.

“Down.”

363 stayed standing.

The collar around their throat suddenly felt heavier.

It always did when a room went quiet.

The device rested close against the skin beneath their jaw, smooth and solid and impossible to forget when a handler’s thumb hovered near the corresponding control.

363 thought they could hear the faint electrical hum inside it.

Maybe they imagined that.

It didn’t matter.

The collar was real.

The punishment attached to it was real.

967 still had the food beneath her hand.

“363,” Peterson said.

Her voice remained level.

“Kneel.”

The command belonged to several categories at once.

Immediate punishment if ignored.

Useful information.

Potential exploitation.

363 calculated quickly.

Standing longer wouldn’t protect 967 more.

It would only increase the severity of whatever happened next.

They lowered themself to the floor.

Slowly.

Controlled.

Peterson’s shoulders loosened by a degree.

“Good.”

363 didn’t acknowledge the praise.

The second handler moved toward 967 again.

363 shifted their weight.

That was all.

Barely an adjustment.

One knee changed angle.

Their shoulders aligned.

Their center of gravity changed.

Every person in the room understood exactly what the movement meant.

The other handler stopped.

Peterson stepped between them.

“Leave it.”

The handler stared.

“She took food.”

“I saw.”

“She’s encouraging—”

“I said leave it.”

The second handler’s jaw tightened.

Her gaze cut toward 967 with open irritation.

Then she looked toward the door.

“Medical in four minutes.”

“I’ll bring her.”

The handler hesitated.

She clearly hated surrendering control.

Peterson’s authority won.

She left.

The lock sealed behind her.

The room fell silent.

967 stayed perfectly still.

Her hand remained over the piece of meat.

Peterson looked down at her.

“Eat it.”

967’s eyes widened.

For a second, she looked as though she thought she’d misheard.

“Now,” Peterson said.

967 lifted the food from beneath her palm.

Her fingers shook.

She put it into her mouth.

At first, she tried to chew slowly.

Properly.

Training required small bites and controlled movements.

Hunger overruled training within seconds.

Her jaw moved faster.

She swallowed too quickly and winced when the movement pulled at the split corner of her mouth.

363 pushed their cup of water across the floor.

Peterson put her shoe against it.

The plastic cup stopped.

“No.”

“Her mouth is injured,” 363 said.

“I can see that.”

“She needs water.”

“She’ll receive water in medical.”

“That isn’t now.”

Peterson looked at them.

363 met her gaze.

Something passed silently between them.

A calculation.

363 recognized it.

Peterson eventually removed her shoe.

363 pushed the cup the remaining distance.

967 didn’t touch it.

Not until Peterson said, “Drink.”

Then she picked it up with both hands.

The rim touched the split in her lip.

She flinched.

Water slipped past the corner of her mouth and ran along her chin.

967 wiped it away quickly with the back of one hand.

Her gaze stayed lowered.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

363 watched her drink.

Peterson watched 363.

When the cup was empty, 967 placed it back against the floor and returned immediately to position.

Her hands settled on her thighs.

Her chin lowered.

Her breathing slowed.

The tiny amount of food and water put the faintest trace of color back into her face.

It didn’t touch the fear hollowing out the space around her eyes.

Peterson crouched in front of 363.

She didn’t touch them.

She’d learned better.

Unannounced contact still made 363’s body prepare for violence before thought caught up. Their muscles responded first. Their mind came afterward.

Peterson entered their line of sight and waited.

Eventually, 363 looked at her.

“You disobeyed a direct instruction.”

“Yes.”

“You stood without permission.”

“Yes.”

“You threatened another handler.”

“No.”

Peterson’s mouth curved slightly.

Not quite amusement.

“What would you call it?”

“Information.”

“What information were you providing?”

“That touching 967 would be difficult.”

A tiny sound escaped 967.

363 didn’t look toward her.

Peterson did.

Then her attention returned.

“You understand that you could’ve been shocked.”

“Yes.”

“You understand you could’ve been restrained.”

“Yes.”

“You understand she still could’ve been punished afterward.”

“Yes.”

“And you did it anyway.”

“Yes.”

Peterson studied their face.

“Why?”

363 looked at 967.

She held position again.

Almost perfectly.

Only her ankle betrayed her.

It trembled against the floor beneath the weight she’d shifted away from it.

“She was hungry.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It is.”

“You risked correction because another trainee missed a meal.”

“She didn’t miss it.”

Peterson waited.

363’s gaze traveled over 967 deliberately.

The bruising beneath the eye.

The guarded arm.

The damaged mouth.

The swollen ankle.

The excessive cleanliness.

The empty stomach.

“It was taken from her.”

967’s face tightened.

Peterson didn’t ask how 363 knew.

She didn’t need to.

WRU punishments had patterns.

Food restriction produced compliance without leaving bruises that complicated presentation photographs.

It weakened resistance.

Made trainees slower.

Quieter.

More grateful when basic needs were restored.

A frightened trainee who needed to appear healthy for assessment was rarely starved long enough to show it visibly.

Only long enough to remember who controlled the next meal.

Peterson rose.

363 watched her.

For one second, they expected her to punish 967 anyway.

Punish her for accepting food.

For drinking.

For becoming the object of 363’s attention.

Instead Peterson turned toward her.

“Stand.”

967 moved immediately.

She planted one foot.

Then the other.

Her injured ankle folded.

Her body lurched sideways.

She caught herself against the wall with a strangled breath.

363 moved before Peterson could.

They crossed the distance and caught 967 beneath the arms.

Her body felt startlingly light.

Too light.

363 steadied her.

967 locked completely at the contact.

Her muscles went rigid.

Her first expectation was restraint.

363 recognized that too.

Then she realized who held her.

Some of the tension left her shoulders.

Not all.

“I’m fine,” she said quickly.

The words weren’t for 363.

They were for Peterson.

The performance was for Peterson.

363 kept one hand close to her elbow until her balance returned.

“No,” they said.

Their voice stayed quiet.

“You aren’t.”

Terror flashed across 967’s face.

Immediate.

Bright.

Because truth could be dangerous here.

Peterson saw it.

“363,” she said. “Release her.”

They did.

Immediately.

967 stood with most of her weight on one leg.

Her hands returned to her sides.

Her chin lowered.

Position restored.

Peterson opened the door.

Before guiding 967 into the corridor, she looked back toward 363’s tray.

Half the rice remained.

One vegetable.

No meat.

The cup was nearly empty.

“You’ll finish what’s left.”

363 sat beside the tray.

“And then?”

Peterson looked at them.

363 expected the white room.

They remembered it immediately.

Blank walls.

Unchanging light.

Nothing to focus on.

No sound except ventilation and their own breathing.

Maybe the collar.

Maybe stress position.

Maybe hours alone until time stopped functioning properly.

Peterson’s expression remained thoughtful.

“Then we’ll discuss your failure to follow instruction.”

967 went pale.

363 didn’t look away from Peterson.

“Will she be punished?”

Peterson’s eyebrow lifted.

“Why would that matter?”

“You know why.”

A silence.

Peterson studied them.

Not their face alone.

Everything.

The set of their shoulders.

Their position relative to 967.

How quickly they’d stood.

How quickly they’d obeyed when obedience became the safer choice.

How much food they’d surrendered.

At last she answered.

“No.”

967’s shoulders dropped slightly.

“Not for this.”

Peterson guided her into the corridor.

The door closed.

363 listened.

Peterson’s footsteps remained steady.

967’s stayed uneven beside hers.

Step.

Drag.

Step.

Drag.

The sounds gradually faded into the mechanical noise of the facility.

Only after both disappeared did 363 pick up the utensil.

They ate the remaining rice.

It had gone cold.

The vegetables had gone softer.

The water was gone.

363 ate anyway.

Peterson said almost nothing while escorting 967 toward medical.

The corridor stretched ahead in long, identical sections of pale walls, reinforced doors, observation windows, and fluorescent lighting that flattened every surface into the same sterile color. Staff passed occasionally without looking twice.

Peterson adjusted her pace.

Only slightly.

Enough that 967 could keep up without falling too far behind.

She didn’t offer an arm.

Didn’t touch her.

967 interpreted the absence of assistance as another expectation.

She worked desperately to hide the limp.

Peterson let her try.

Her attention wasn’t really on 967.

It remained behind them.

Inside the locked room.

With 363.

The refusal itself had been predictable.

363 refused often.

The willingness to challenge another handler wasn’t surprising either.

Neither was their apparent indifference to personal punishment.

Peterson had seen all of those things before.

What interested her was the precision.

363 hadn’t acted impulsively.

They’d watched.

Counted.

Calculated.

They’d reduced their own portion before giving any away.

They’d waited until the second handler looked elsewhere.

They hadn’t handed food directly to 967 because that would've forced her to openly accept it.

They’d slid it close enough for concealment.

When the handler noticed, 363 had refused responsibility for retrieving it.

When the handler moved toward 967, 363 stood.

When Peterson ordered them down and continued standing no longer offered a useful advantage, they’d knelt.

Every choice had served the same purpose.

Protect 967.

Limit 967’s exposure.

Absorb as much consequence as possible.

363’s disobedience wasn’t chaotic.

It wasn’t simple aggression.

It wasn’t even refusal for refusal’s sake.

It operated according to rules.

Their rules.

That distinction mattered.

Peterson had spent weeks trying to make WRU’s system logical enough for 363 to accept.

Reward.

Punishment.

Permission.

Correction.

Cause.

Effect.

She’d assumed resistance existed because 363 hadn’t fully internalized those rules yet.

Maybe she’d misunderstood the problem.

363 understood WRU perfectly well.

They simply didn’t recognize its rules as morally binding.

Their own rules outranked it.

Peterson considered that.

363 tolerated hunger.

They tolerated isolation.

They tolerated humiliation.

Pain had limited usefulness for obvious reasons.

Threats against their own comfort produced inconsistent results.

Even the collar gave handlers control over behavior more reliably than belief.

But another trainee’s fear had brought 363 to their feet before the handler had finished reaching for her.

That wasn’t resistance.

That was attachment.

Attachment changed the equation.

At the medical door, 967 spoke.

“Handler?”

Peterson looked toward her.

967 immediately lowered her gaze.

“Are they going to the white room?”

Peterson stopped.

967’s injured ankle trembled beneath her.

“You’re concerned about 363?”

967 swallowed.

“They helped me.”

“And that creates an obligation?”

967’s mouth tightened around the split lip.

“No, Handler.”

Too quick.

Too rehearsed.

Peterson noticed.

She opened the medical-room door.

A technician waited inside beside a narrow examination bed. Stainless-steel instruments reflected the hard overhead light. The room smelled of antiseptic, latex, and something faintly medicinal.

Peterson guided 967 inside.

The technician took her wrist.

967 flinched before controlling it.

Peterson stepped back into the hallway.

The door stayed open behind her.

She could hear the technician giving instructions.

“Arm.”

“Hold still.”

“Does this hurt?”

“No, Handler.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

Peterson stopped listening.

Her thoughts returned to 363.

She replayed the moment they’d risen.

Not wild.

Not uncontrolled.

Immediate.

Decisive.

Protective.

She replayed the way they’d positioned themself between 967 and the second handler without actually touching either of them.

The way they’d knelt the moment escalation no longer served the purpose.

The way they’d asked whether 967 would be punished before asking what punishment waited for them.

That mattered.

A great deal.

Peterson had been teaching 363 about categories.

Private information.

Useful information.

Dangerous information.

Things people could exploit.

Things they should conceal.

Apparently, 363 had been learning something alongside the lesson.

So had Peterson.

Protectiveness was a form of attachment.

Attachment created predictable behavior.

Predictable behavior could be shaped.

And anything that shaped behavior could become leverage.

The realization didn’t arrive dramatically.

Peterson didn’t smile.

She didn’t celebrate it.

She simply adjusted her understanding.

363 didn’t need to fear for themself.

That approach had already shown limited value.

They needed something outside themself that mattered enough to alter their decisions.

Someone.

967 had already done it once.

Peterson looked through the narrow window in the medical-room door.

967 sat on the examination bed while the technician wrapped her ankle.

She looked small beneath the fluorescent lights.

Tired.

Bruised.

Terrified.

Useful.

Peterson’s gaze stayed on her for several seconds.

She wouldn’t separate 363 from 967 completely.

Not yet.

That would waste the attachment before it developed.

Instead, she would permit proximity.

Small privileges.

Controlled contact.

Enough interaction for 363 to recognize 967’s comfort as something meaningful.

Then Peterson would make that comfort conditional.

A meal if 363 complied.

Medical attention delivered promptly if they followed instruction.

A safer training partner.

A shorter correction.

A blanket.

Water.

Rest.

Nothing large enough to look like coercion when written in a file.

Nothing that couldn’t be described as behavioral reinforcement.

First, 363 needed to learn that 967 could be comfortable because of them.

Then they needed to learn she could be uncomfortable because of them.

After that, the distinction would become very simple.

Compliance meant 967 suffered less.

Resistance meant Peterson could change that.

She turned away from the window.

Inside the room, 967 asked the technician something too softly for Peterson to hear.

The technician answered.

Peterson walked back down the corridor toward 363.

Her footsteps remained measured.

Even.

Unhurried.

By the time she reached the locked door, she’d already started rearranging the next week’s lessons in her head.

She wouldn’t punish 363 severely for what had happened today.

That would teach the wrong lesson.

Instead, she would make sure they saw 967 again.

-

He didn't mean to, he didn't. He'd only finished up his internship six months ago, only been on the actual job without a supervisor on him day in and day out for half a year.

But he hadn't checked the voltage, before he went to discipline a fighter, and now he had teeth marks that drew blood in a broken oval on one arm and way worse - a damaged Romantic trainee who couldn't be sold to his planned prospective.

He'd have to be sold down the line, secondhand, maybe still fucking twitching or with no short-term memory or something. Bentley couldn't really remember, exactly, what the long-term effects were. He'd studied it during the internship, but... but right now, sitting where he was, he couldn't remember anything but the terror making his heart pound.

"The client is extremely unsatisfied," Karen Renford said, her fingers steepled before her, and he couldn't take his eyes off those blood-red fingernails. The bite mark from the fucking trainee throbbed along his right forearm, bandaged up but he swore he could feel it infecting. "You see how that causes me difficulties."

"Y-Yes, Ms. Renford-"

"Madam," She corrected him, voice thick as glacial ice and just as cold. "This was a million-dollar sale down the drain, Mr. Greenleaf. One. Million. Dollars. And one unsatisfied client, who happens to know other potential clients, who may now avoid us due to worries about their own satisfaction. Difficulty upon difficulty, Mr. Greenleaf."

"Yes, Madam."

Bentley hunched over in his chair. The uniform felt too big, suddenly. He wasn't strong enough to wear it. He'd thought he was doing okay, but...

"I intend to solve my problem," the Director said, sitting back and looking over a small pile of papers, flipping over one and then another until she found what she wanted. "And solve one of yours." She slid the paper across the desk.

It was a photo of his parents, a photocopied article from the newspaper from his local town, celebrating his dad surviving his third brain surgery.

"Medical care is quite expensive in this country," Director Renford said softly. "But I am friends with the owner of the largest hospital network in California. Very, very good friends. And some debts can be erased, forgotten, simply cease to be, when friends are involved."

Bentley swallowed, not quite following, but foreboding made his stomach flip. He looked at his father and mother's smiling faces. Thought of his mother crying to him on the phone that the disease kept coming back, they'd have to sell the house. "Wh-... what should I do to fix it?" He asked, hesitantly.

Director Renford smiled, and Bentley shuddered with the chill.

"I have a piece of paper for you to sign," She said, voice soft. "And then the money you've cost us with your mistakes, and the costs of your father's medical care... all will be forgiven. All you have to do is... well, keep working for us, in a way."

"In a way?" Bentley thought about the contract he'd signed. In the unlikely event that a handler renders a trainee incapable of fulfilling their duties through injury, death, unsanctioned scarring, or other unacceptable breaches of policy...

"Oh, my God," he whispered.

"Either way, you'll sign in the end," Director Renford said, matter-of-fact. "This way, your family at least will be cared for. Isn't that better?"

He swallowed down the lump in his throat. He knew, now, why there was security at the office door, and why his badge didn't work to unlock the hallways today.

Because he wasn't a handler any longer.

He was-

"Yes, Madam Director," He said, and held his hand out for a pen.

"Good boy," Karen said, and watched him sign his new contract.

-

In the cold white room, he hung limp from the wall, hands in iron shackles beside his head, a heavy nylon collar around his neck. A needle was in his arm, and the drug that filtered slowly through him felt so very, very cold.

Chill air blew from a vent he couldn't see, somewhere above him.

He didn't know how long he was there.

He cried at first - but then he had no more tears left.

A woman walked in, vaguely familiar, her black heels clicking against the white tiles, a smear of bloody red under the soles. She looked him over with a cold, analytical appraisal of his appearance, flicked the bag hooked to the IV, watched him shiver and look down and away.

"What's your name?" She asked, and someone behind her wrote notes on a clipboard.

"I... I d'n know," He slurred, looking slowly up to meet her hazel eyes.

She slapped him, palm cracking against skin, and he barely had the energy to whimper. A tear ran down his face, and she rubbed it away with one gloved thumb before shaking her hand out, as if his tears were disgusting.

"No," She said, and despite the slap she sounded pleased with him. Part of him stirred, glad he had done what she wanted, even if not all the way. "You don't. But I know, darling. You are not a name. You do not have one, for you aren't a person. But you have a number."

"'m a number, not a person," he mumbled. He remembered that playing through speakers, deafeningly loud, interspersed with sounds of screaming he thought came from other rooms. He couldn't sleep.

How long had he been kept awake like this?

"Good boy," She said, and this time she patted his cheek gently.

He flinched, anyway.

"Your number is 543887," She said, quietly. "And you will remember that. Eventually."

She turned and left, and he began to cry again.

He couldn't remember why.

-

"Hey, kid."

543887 leaned over, trying to catch the little redhead's attention. The boy was sitting hunched over at a table in the big meal room, his hands in his lap, staring at the big empty nothing in front of him while the trainees around him devoured the flavorless nutrient loaf they'd been given.

"Hey. Look at me." He dared to snap his fingers - the handlers were chatting off in the corner and didn't notice, but the redhead finally looked up. His eyes were hazy, a little dazed - they were keeping him on something. 887 could almost remember what it was called, as if he'd worked with it himself.

He smiled, trying to look kind, but the kid cringed back and away.

“Sssshhh, it's okay. Here.” He slipped a half-eaten protein bar into the kid's hand. He'd been so good for his handler, she swore up and down he was rocketing through training faster than anyone she'd worked with before.

Plus, she... felt sorry for him. He knew that. She talked to him like they knew each other, even though they didn't. So sometimes she gave him food.

The redhead looked down at the wrapper, staring in awe at the peanut butter covered in something similar to chocolate.

887 smiled at the little redhead whispered his thanks, and his empty stomach growled.

“I, thank… thank you, so much," The redhead said, blinking back tears that turned his green eyes to sparkling jewels. "H-Handler Petrus, he says-”

“It’s okay. Just eat.” 887 stood and patted him on the back.

He walked away, so that no one would realize they'd spoken.

-

The redhead had gotten thinner, and tried to speak less and less. 887 found himself watching him, noting the hint of puppyfat he still had around the edges of his face, slowly turning angular more from starvation than growing up.

WRU wasn’t supposed to take people under 18. 887 knew that, although he wasn’t sure why.

But when he saw him during meals, well… sometimes he tried to do something nice.

He could remember that it was important to do something nice.

“Here,” he whispered, handing the trainee some potato chips in a bag he’d fished out of the handlers’ trash. She didn’t notice. She was too busy getting 887 ready to move on, go somewhere else, live somewhere new.

And she was sad about it, but 887 was excited. Getting to leave the Facility and go out into the world to meet his owner was everything he lived for, and he couldn’t wait.

“Wh-what?” The redhead looked up at him. He had weights hanging from his hands, keeping them still. “But-”

“You need it more than I do.”

He smiled, and the redhead smiled back.

887 walked away.

-

“Oh, he’s got the look,” A man said, walking in a circle around 887, who stood in Position One, back straight, hands clasped behind him. “Muscles, the square jaw, good chin, teeth are excellent… yeah, he’ll do just fine.”

“Lovely.” Director Renford was all smiles and welcome, but watching her felt like watching a lizard feign humanity. 887 couldn’t take his eyes off her as she worked with the man. Papers were signed, while 887 was looked over, felt up - the man even put a hand between his legs, pulled his shorts away from his stomach to ‘get a look at the merchandise’.

He didn’t flinch back. He was a good Romantic, and he even found it in himself to tip his head to the side and smile. Bite down on his lower lip.

His collar was simple leather, now.

“And he can perform?”

“Exactly to your specifications,” Karen Renford said, waving one hand almost idly. “For any length of time you require, male and female. He has been expertly worked over and retains no specific preference that will interfere with your business.”

“Oh, Karen, you always know how to turn a shit situation into solid gold, don’t you?”

“I do my best.” Her reptile smile was focused on 887’s face, and he looked away from her, down to the floor.

His handler never said a word - she had no power here, he and she both knew it. The only power in this room was Director Renford and the prospective who had just agreed to own him. He tried to feel the excitement he’d had leading up to this, but he didn’t-

He… didn’t really like men.

Not that he couldn’t pretend, but…

“Well. Let’s get him back to the studio.” The man grinned at 887, squaring up with hands on his hips to look him over one more time. “You ever wanted to be an actor, son?”

887 looked uncertainly at his handler, who only shrugged back at him. Then he looked back at the man. “Um. I-I don’t know, sir. A pet agrees to give up any and all memories of their former life in order to more quickly adjust to-”

“I don’t care.” The man cut him off, patting him on the side like he was touching the flanks of a horse.

887 didn’t know what a horse was, but part of him did, and he still had the thought.

“Okay, let’s get you back. I’ve got a room for you in the studio - that’s where you’ll be living. We’ll give you a couple of days to settle in, and then we’ll start filming on Monday. How’s that sound?”

It wasn’t his place to have an opinion, but 887 gave a bright smile nonetheless. “Sounds perfect, sir. I’ll have my own room?”

“Uh… no. You’ll have a roommate.”

887’s smile widened even more, and this time it was genuine. “That’s wonderful, sir. Thank you, sir.”

As long as he didn’t have to be alone anymore.

“Good, good. All right, Shane, let’s go.”

“Sh-... Shane?”

“Yeah, we already picked your name when it was the other one, the one that got zapped too hard.”

887 didn’t know what the man was referring to, but he flushed and felt an odd trickle of shame anyway. As if it were his fault. “Oh.”

“Yeah. So, from this day on, you’re Shane Sunnysmith.”

It felt good to have a name.

He followed the man out into the sun in the parking lot, dazzled by the promise of a new life.

-

“Good boy,” Scarlett purred, a smile full of vicious desire on her face, as she leaned over him, settling herself in his lap. “You’re going to make some lucky girl a wonderful Romantic when I’m done with you.”

He and Scarlett laughed about these movies afterward. In their room, curled up together in the big bed they share. But right now, the drugs lit him up, the purple one pumping through his veins, and all he could think about is how badly he needed to fuck her now.

“Please…” Shane nuzzled up for a kiss but she pulled back, smacking him lightly on the arm, making him jump. He pulled at the ropes around his wrists, massaging his thumbs into her hips through the scratchy fabric of her uniform.

She ran her hands through his hair and Shane groaned, tipping his head back as she pulled lightly, the pleasure of it running down his spine, pooling between his legs.

This was a scene, he was meant to be frightened, but he loved Scarlett and sometimes he forgot to be scared of her. Sometimes she forgot she was supposed to treat him like a whore and not her friend.

“Very good boy,” She whispered, and rolled her hips. The pleasure of it made him gasp and moan. She’d make fun of his moan later, and the simple fact of the humor they’ll enjoy later when her collar was back on and the two of them could go back to being themselves helped him through the fear that beat just behind his teeth.

He hated the drugs, but they made the scenes easier, and that meant more time alone with Scarlett when filming was done.

She laughed, sliding her hands down. She took him in hand, stroking him slowly, and he ended up rocking his hips into her touch with helpless abandon.

She stood back, and began unbuttoning her shirt. He watched, mouth watering at the sight of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts beneath the black lace bra, the skin of her stomach, all the way down to her belt.

“You’re going to be such a good boy for me, aren’t you?” She asked, and laughed. Not quite mean enough, but that was okay, the man didn’t make them stop and do it over so they must not have noticed.

The man held his phone up for one angle, and two other men held small digital cameras at different angles in different places. They’d edit this later and release it.

Shane and Scarlett were in heavy demand, and this was the twenty-first movie they’d made. They were making lots of money for the studio, and some of it… some of it was even used to give them things like extra blankets, days out at the zoo, trips to conventions where they pretended to be human and no one asked too many questions.

They just wanted pictures of his abs, and her chest.

“Yes, handler,” He said, and she grinned, unbuckling her belt.

“I’m going to fuck you until you can’t stand,” She said, wrapping the belt around his throat over his collar. Above her mean acting-smile, her eyes were soft and kind and loving. His friend, his roommate, the other pet he spent every single day with. He knows she would never hurt him more than the movie called for.

“Then when I’m done,” She continued, “You’re going to thank me for it. Understood?”

“Yes, handler,” He said, slightly breathless as she began to pull the loop of the belt tight.

The cameras were all on his neck as she started to choke him, and she took that second to let her smile soften and wink.

-

“What did you do?!” Scarlett screamed the words, her hands up over her mouth. They barely muffled the sound. She was naked, and the handprints bruising already over her hips were an ugly red.

Shane stared down at the body of the man, barely recognizable now. His heart pounded in his throat, but it wasn’t with regret, just fear of being caught. He looked over at Scarlett, breathing in heavy pants, and shook his head. “He was-... he was hurting you.”

“He was hurting you first!” She shouted, and dropped into a crouch. She rifled through the man’s pockets, ignoring the red stain spreading over his chest where he sat slumped over against the wall.

The hammer Shane had hit him with - he’d nicked it from some construction guys fixing ceiling tiles in their room last week - lay on the floor beside the body.

Scarlett pulled out a wallet, took out cards and IDs. Shane watched her, as the fear in her started to smooth out into something very much like a deadly calm. She moved over to the little dresser they shared and took out a sweater and a pair of lounge pants, pulling them over her head. They had no underwear - anything they needed for a scene was provided by wardrobe, and they didn’t wear any otherwise.

“I-... I know he was, but it’s okay-”

“No. It’s not.” Scarlett snorted, raking a hand back through her hair to get it out of her face. She slipped the cash and the cards into one pocket, leaving the empty wallet on the bed. “Shane, we have to go. If they find him, we’ll both be refurbished.”

“Go where?” He looked helplessly around. When he’d brought the hammer down - the man was going to hurt Scarlett after she’d scratched him, hit him herself when he ordered Shane to bend over the bed and he’s not that kind of pet! She’d screamed.

They did scenes together, only together.

They weren’t for studio use, but the man had said he wanted to get a physical experience with his investment.

“I don’t care. Out. We can-... we can hit up hotels for a few days. It doesn’t matter. I’ve been, I’ve been watching TV and movies and I think… I think we can do this.”

Scarlett came over to him, taking his hands.

His best friend.

“We’re going, Shane,” Scarlett said, and pulled his knuckles to her lips to kiss. “Okay? We’re going, and when we get out there we’re going to see who we were and maybe we can go back to those lives instead.”

“We gave those up, Scarlett,” He protested, but she shook her head. “We signed over-”

“I don’t care. I want to know who I was, and if anyone misses me. Don’t you?”

He swallowed.

He thought of his earliest memory, of the Director asking him his name, and being unable to answer.

“I do,” he said, softly. “I want to know who I was.”

She led him out of their bedroom and out of the studio, into the night, where they asked a taxi driver to take them to the nearest hotel.

-

Three days later, news headlines read;

MILLS WELSON, FOUNDER OF HUMAN PET-THEMED ADULT FILM STUDIO, FOUND MURDERED IN BRUTAL CRIME OF PASSION.

Below that:

SHANE SUNNYSMITH AND SCARLETT DREDD DECLARED PERSONS OF INTEREST IN HOMICIDE INVESTIGATION.

“We need new names,” Shane said, sitting on a small hotel bed cross-legged, looking at the newspaper unfolded in front of him, a cup of coffee in his hand. “Scarlett, we need-”

“I know.” She frowned, drinking her own coffee, staring at the blinds that hid them from the world outside their room. “We need new hair colors, too. When I was out earlier, I ran into someone…”

“Who?”

“Some guy. He said he’s with ‘pet liberation’, and that they can help us. He gave me a number.”

Shane took a breath.

“Will they separate us?”

“They said they don’t split bonded pairs.” Scarlett frowned. Steam wafted upwards, drifting around her face. “We’re not bonded, but…”

“We’ll pretend to be. Give him a call.”

Scarlett smiled.

-