CW: Facility whump, implied whump of a minor, shock collars are referenced, referenced drugging, implied future noncon at the end, warning for Luke Petrus
“Can... can I... tell you s-something?”
The trainee next to him shifts, nervously, and looks towards the door. They’re in Accessories Training, learning how to coordinate colors - choosing a tie that matches a suit just right. 223499 isn’t very good at this, but he’s slowly getting better. He keeps getting distracted by how smooth and silky the ties are, running his fingers over them again and again.
In Accessories Training, he’s still the youngest but there are a couple others who aren’t too far from his age, he thinks. 223499 is eighteen, they tell him, because all pets are of legal consenting age at time of contract signing.
The thought makes his chest twist, uncomfortable, but he pushes past it.
“Can I?” He asks, again.
They’re not supposed to talk, but the handler who does Accessories Training had to go out in the hall, taking some kind of call from someone. It’s just the ten of them in the large training room, now. One trainee, at the end, is still chained by his shock collar to the wall - he’s a runner. The other nine, though, are all very good boys.
The handler said so, and he patted 223499′s head once during class, too.
“Um.” The other trainee looks at the door again. Then he nods. “Yeah, okay. Make it fast, though. He’ll be back any second and I am not going back to being the fucking chew toy for Handler Ferrick’s guard dogs.”
223499 nods rapidly - he’s heard about that, about the bad pets who have to go wear big padding to protect themselves while the Guard Dogs are trained to hurt bad guys by siccing them on bad pets, first.
“Oh, okay. I just, just, just... look at what I did.” 223499 glances slyly at the door and then opens his hand, keeping it just below the table. There’s half a pill in his hand bitten, a bit of bitter white powder.
The other trainee’s eyebrows rise. “Shit. How’d you do that?”
“This, um, this other... other... one... in my Flexibility class... showed me.” 223499 grins, full of pride. “So, so... I can... think better.”
The other trainee looks down, then back up at him. “Can I have it?”
223499 frowns. “Why?”
“Because I’d like to think a little bit less. You mind?”
223499 shakes his head and the other trainee grabs the half-pill right out of his hand, swallowing it dry.
“Thanks, kid.”
“I’m, I’m, I’m not a kid,” 223499 protests. “I’m eighteen.”
The other trainee gives him a long stare. “Sure, sure you are,” He says, dryly.
It looks like he’ll say something else when the runner’s chain suddenly rattles, the signal they agreed on in hurried whispers for when the hander came back. All the boys go silent, straighten their backs, and shift their hands behind themselves into an easy, expert Position One.
It’s not the handler who runs the class that comes in, though. It’s Handler Petrus, 223499′s primary. His eyes scan the class, cold dead blue above his smirk, and land on 223499. “Here, pet. Come.”
He gestures, and 223499 moves automatically, torn between fear and a kind of terrible, desperate affection. “Yes... yes, sir?” Handler Petrus slides a hand around his shoulders, pulling him close, fingers gripping up into his hair. The boy is trained enough to hold still and let is eyes be raised this way, even though it hurts. “S-sir?”
“I’ve got some extra training for you today,” Petrus drawls, and then he uses the hand in the boy’s hair to shove him through the door into the hallway. “And if you’re very good, I’ll let you sleep in a bed tonight.”
223499 stumbles forward, catching himself against the opposite wall before he falls. Two other handlers standing there laugh, and the boy swallows when Handler Petrus gestures at them to follow, too.
Suddenly, he wishes he’d swallowed both halves of the pill.
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