I love to imagine and create

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The weapon didn't react. Whitney sighed.

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

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

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

This was stupid.

She was stupid.

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

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

"Do you like The Handler?" she asked.

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

Why?

Why, when all they did was hurt her?

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

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

The weapon didn't look back.

—

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

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

"Do you enjoy doing this? Hurting me?"

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

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

Someone to fall for?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She drifted off to sleep.

—

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

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

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

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

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

But that was different.

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

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

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

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

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

The weapon was silent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

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

It was strangely intimate, the whole ritual.

Or maybe she was starting to imagine things.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—

Days passed.

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

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

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

"What have you done?" she breathed.

"Want water?"

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

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

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

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

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

But why else would The Handler make such a request?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No!" she snapped. The Handler grinned.

"Kick them."

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, Whitney couldn't breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They just stared at each other for a moment.

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

"What have they done to you?"

"Doesn't matter."

"It does. To me."

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

"Whitney?" they whispered.

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

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

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

She leaned in.

The weapon didn't pull away.

Their kiss tasted like copper.

"I'm sorry," the weapon said.

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

"Can we… Can we really just go now?"

"Yeah. Let's… Let's go."

~

"Thank you, but it's really fine," you force out. There. That wasn't so hard, was it?

Freddie's brows furrow in concern. She doesn't seem impressed by your self-restraint. "Well, it's there for when you want it. You're free to have it, really."

"Thank you, Freddie."

"You always sound so formal. It's okay to be a little more... casual with me. You know that, right?"

Manners. Your handler beat them into you. There is no way you can be casual with someone who most likely saved your life, or at least saved you from going to prison for stealing food.

You nod anyway. That's pretty casual.

You watch intently as Freddie expertly swirls the strands of pasta around her fork, twisting and twisting until there is a good amount on it, then lifts it to her mouth and takes a bite. So that's what you were meant to do. You stash the knowledge away for next time.

Next time? What are you thinking? How dare you assume there will be a next time?

Your training feels like it's slipping through your malnourished fingers. As if the hunger and the kindness have fully unravelled your mind, moulded it into something else, something... improper.

"Uh..." Freddie looks like she wants to say something, but doesn't know how to begin. "I still don't know your name. But hey, um... You don't want to go back and sleep in the park tonight, do you? I can set up my guest bedroom for you. And in the morning, you could have another salami sandwich. Doesn't that sound good?"

It sounds dangerous. She has already weaselled her way into a far corner of your heart, the one longing for affirmation, kindness, generosity. Things you've never been given.

~

And blank templates for anyone who would like it.

And blank templates for anyone who would like it.

"That's not..." You trail off. Maybe it'll be better if she thinks you just don't like spaghetti. "Thank you, Freddie."

She stands up from the table and goes to the counter, grabbing a loaf of bread. You mourn not getting to try the spaghetti — it smells delicious, and after two days of not eating, you're sure it would've been heavenly. But a sandwich is good. It's sustenance.

"What would you like in your sandwich? And don't just try to please me. Tell me what you really like."

"I like salami," you say timidly. Does she have salami at home?

"Salami. Okay." She goes to the fridge and takes out some salami, then arranges it in a layer on top of the bread. "Anything else?"

"Just salami is fine. Thank you, Freddie."

She puts the plate in front of you, at the same time taking the untouched spaghetti. A sandwich. Way more manageable. You wait for Freddie to sit back down, and you take your first bite.

Oh.

It's... very good. The salami is not the cheap kind the facility had. It's so tasty. You can't help yourself, you can't even sit and wait for Freddie to start eating as well, you scarf it down like... well, like you haven't eaten in two days.

When you next look up, you find Freddie staring.

"Sorry," you say, the word just slipping out despite you having no real idea what you did wrong.

"No, it's fine. Do you want another sandwich?"

You swallow. The taste of bread and salami lingers. You desperately want more. But you've already exhausted Freddie's kindness, you can't possibly ask for even more.

"No, thank you. It was delicious."

"It's really no bother," she assures you. "Are you sure you don't— Here." She stands up, grabbing the loaf of sliced bread and the packet of salami, placing both in front of you on the table, presumably so you can make your own sandwich. "Have as much as you like."

~